The Corpse Apple: Royalty
by PaperInkFlowers
Summary: The cursed laces were undone, and she moved. The cursed hairpin was pulled, and she thought. The cursed apple had been dislodged, and she lived. But this time, the Queen ensured she wouldn't come back right. Slash, het, mpreg, OCs. Ensemble. Renard-centric.
1. Chapter 1

**The Corpse Apple: Royalty  
**

Description: The cursed laces were undone, and she moved. The cursed hairpin was pulled, and she thought. The cursed apple had been dislodged, and she lived. But this time, the Queen ensured she wouldn't come back right. Slash, het, mpreg, OCs. Ensemble. Renard-centric.

Takes place after The Sandman. Some canon divergences from Face-Off. Placing the events of 2.12 Season of the Hexenbiest through 2.15 The Sandman in November 2012.

**Warning: **Trigger warning alert! This fic contains an assortment of triggery content here and there. Nothing explicit though. There are also original characters not from the show. Also included are slash and het couples. And Renard mpreg. (Yes, you read that right.)

A/N: I make no claims of ownership of Grimm and its respective characters. This is not meant to impede anyone on the show their jobs. This is me just thinking about the show. _A lot._ And playing with the Grimm "action figures" and wishful thinking of stuff I'd like to see in fic form.

~v-^-v-^-v-^-v~ ~v-^-v-^-v-^-v~

_~Prologue~_

There was a tale from a time long forgotten, about when a prince and his entourage came across seven masons preparing the burial of a beautiful young lady in an exquisitely crafted glass coffin.

What tragedy had befallen that such a beauty should be embraced by the dirt so soon, the prince inquired.

Someone had wished their fine lady ill, replied the masons who had sheltered her while she lived. Once with laces, once with a hairpin, but now they were at loss to what caused their lady's state and they helplessly grieved. For seven days she laid pristine and unchanged in this magical death.

The prince, remembering the tale of a sleeping beauty whose curse of slumber was broken by a royalty's kiss, demanded the masons raise and unseal her coffin. With faint hope, the masons quickly re-hoisted her coffin, whispering apologies for jostling her rest. As the prince lifted her by the shoulders- before he laid his lips upon her's- she stirred and coughed and something tumbled out between her lips.

So this is the accursed object, the masons exclaimed as they studied the piece of apple, pocketing it away to be placed with the other two cursed items.

Rejoicing in his good fortune, the prince insisted for her hand in marriage.

So the masons bid her farewell, and she promised she would return.

When the Queen- the fairest in the land- saw the young lady once again at her wedding to the prince… her eyes that saw all glittered with knowledge and she smiled.

~v-^-v-^-v-^-v~ ~v-^-v-^-v-^-v~

_Thirty-eight years ago, somewhere in Europe…_

Fingers with unvarnished, well-manicured nails gently stroked the silky cheek of her sleeping baby. Standing over his cradle, she pondered what she could do with her child. Nearly an year since his birth and she finds that she's impressed at her baby's resilience. Born a month premature- even by a Hexenbiest's gestation rate- and in weak health, her tiny baby was determined to live. She approved of the healthier glow his complexion had become over the course of the months with her providing nothing more than normal human care. She truly didn't expect him to survive and dismissed her considerations to acquire the expensive and unusual ingredients needed to aid the infant's development; unwilling to risk raising suspicion about her Wesen nature and her situation.

It seemed none of that was necessary.

Still, her baby was too quiet. Bright, alert eyes, firm grip in both tiny hands, and quick reflexive responses. But she hasn't heard him cry yet. It might have given her cause to be concerned if she didn't find it very convenient. All in all, rearing her baby had been quite easy and unfussy. Though healthier her baby may appear, he was still not ideal. Not enough as befitting for a child with Royal blood running through his veins, not enough that questions of soundness of mind and body would arise, and not enough to be anything more useful than a blood source.

Though she's unsure how useful, or even reliable, her baby's blood would be considering his mix ancestry.

And quite an ancestry it is.

Who would have thought it possible for a Grimm and a Hexenbiest to conceive a child together? Her baby was born sickly, so she had speculated that it must have been the properties of the father's Royal blood that made the slimmest chance of conception possible. Otherwise, she would have lost her powers long ago when she first slept with Prince Francois Perrault. Royal blood was powerful. Maybe even more so than Grimm blood.

It had been a heart-stopping shock to discover the Grimm bloodline ran in the Royal Perrault Family. The fear that seized her when she realized how unwittingly she could have destroyed her Hexenbiest powers was enough for her to consider to simply flee the country. Or how it could have exposed her true nature to Francois. She's sure his infatuation over her wouldn't be enough motivation to protect her against the Families' censure or the Verrat. Or from Rebecca.

Pale burgundy glossed lips twisted in disdain at the thought of Francois's wife. Beautiful, socially adept, and a perfect presentation of a pet wife of a Royal. What a useless woman. Just another pretty face. Keeping up appearances of an acceptable trophy wife and a vessel for Francois's seed. Francois could have done so much better. Unfortunately for her, Francois was unlikely to abandon Rebecca- having given him a strong son who, at six year old, was so much like his father. The resemblance between Francois and little Eric was uncanny. For now, she and her baby couldn't compete with Rebecca and Eric.

Sniffing and casting the thoughts of Rebecca out of her head, she looked down at her baby. Curiously, she calculated the odds of her baby capable of expressing Hexenbiest ancestry. Or the even rarer chance that her baby had enough power to express mixed ancestry- weakly born as he may be. Wesens either had enough magic to express a heritage or they didn't. Expressing mix ancestry required so much more power. Hybridity were few and far between. But if her baby could be a Zauberbiest immune to the nullifying affects that Grimm blood had on her kind, he would be a force to reckon with if he became a Reaper. And as long as the Verrat didn't kill him or sterilize him first, her baby could pass his Grimm immunity to his offsprings. He could be the progenitor of another Royal Family with a new breed of her kind and displace the value of Grimms.

She sneered at the possibility that all seven of the Royal Families could share the Grimm bloodline.

More worrisome- if all seven Royal Families had been completely overtaken by Grimms. The thought of all the Royal lineages destroyed and surviving only through Grimms disgusted her. The self-righteous blood-thirsty creatures. They should be purged from the world. Were it actually possible, she would bleed the Grimm bloodline from her baby if it wasn't going to be useful.

As if sensing her ill mood, her baby stirred and murmured a small coo. Green eyes blinked sleepily back at her, tiny feet gently kicking against his soft blanket, one fist reaching out, opening and clutching at the air.

What possibilities her baby will provide her, fingers slowly tapping thoughtfully on the cradle's wooden rim before leaning over to run her hand over his skull, brushing back silky strands of dark hair.

She thinks it's about time to give him a name; now that she's sure her baby will survive to be her son.

~v-^-v-^-v-^-v~ ~v-^-v-^-v-^-v~

_~Chapter One~_

_Present time…_

Sergeant Louis 'Lou' Wu sighed heavily as he set the phone down. A call from the county sheriff on site of a murder scene. A man was found dead out in their jurisdiction and the sheriff called the precinct once the victim was identified.

George Singer, retired sergeant of the 3rd Precinct. One of their own.

Wu remembered him. George was a great cop and they had been all sorry to see him go. He and Lieutenant Franco- then Sergeant- threw him a low-key goodbye party when George quietly resigned five years ago at thirty-six. Had seen enough, he said.

Now George was found drowned. In his shower, with the door's metal rims welded shut and sealed with grafted acrylic. Bound and weighted down.

It hits hard when the victim is a fellow cop. And a lot harder when it's someone you know.

He turns his head to look at the Captain's office where Hank and Nick were briefing the closing details of their latest case with Renard. An open and shut case judging by their body languages. Nothing unusual.

Not about the case anyways.

Wu studied his closest colleagues. Two of them who he wished he could call friends instead of only good co-workers. He can tell something has changed the trust between the three of them. Hank and Nick shielded themselves from the Captain with a veneer of wariness whenever any of the three were alone together away from the rest of the officers. Renard has been even more distant than usual, handling himself carefully especially towards Nick. In some bizarre personality chiaroscuro, the Captain's congeniality only made his remoteness even more apparent in Wu's eyes. If Wu hadn't known Renard for so long, he would have missed that behavioral change in his once-upon-a-time partner.

He wondered what secrets has been exposed. He knows that Nick had been keeping something from Hank. And Hank was no fool, he knew his partner was hiding something from him. Something he thought he should know about. Whatever it was, Nick came clean and it didn't hurt their partnership or their friendship. If anything, it seemed to have brought the two closer together. They were working better than before.

And whatever it was, Wu didn't think it was anything he had to worry about. They were good men, and he hasn't seen anything that proved him wrong.

Wu could tell.

He's been in that situation years ago when he and Renard were partners.

Watching Hank and Nick sometimes made him nostalgic and regretful. Once, that could have- should have- been himself and Renard. If there was one thing he regretted about helping bury Renard's past, it was that it ate away their friendship and hollowed out their partnership until they became nothing more than co-workers who worked well together. Sean Renard was proud and he couldn't accept his partner's pity or the clumsy overtures of help; the awkward gulf that had been ever-present at the time drove them apart, the distance never mended as Renard rose quickly through the ranks.

Lately, what he did- didn't do- has been weighing on him. He didn't regret his part in the cover-up, but he wonders what he could have done differently afterwards. He had always known he might have made a mistake; so he stayed, refusing promotions and transfers to keep an eye on Renard. Deflecting inquiries with the explanation that he liked working under Renard's command and didn't want to take a chance with a new boss.

Which was true. Renard was a good captain. Efficiently ran the precinct, handled the media well, and capable of smoothly handling bureaucracy to the letter while flaunting the spirit so his officers could do their jobs. Something the seasoned people of the precinct appreciated. Even if there were questions about what a wealthy man was doing in the high stress and high risk profession of a police captain. Not an uncommon topic among the conspiracy theorists around the back water cooler (incidentally, out of the Captain's usual passing routes) and an envious pill of resentment among the more… entitled officers. It was one of the few known pieces of the mystery that was their reserved Captain. One that usually caused rookies and transfers to assume the Captain bought his position. The precinct were used to seeing the Captain nip insubordination in the bud, or the posturing with other department heads. They knew it rankled the Captain when officers made his fortune an issue. Wu knew it was why Renard dyed his hair gray, even though he was only an year older than him. Their precinct had seen some officers come and gone because of how it compromised their jobs, and worse- flagged the attention of Internal Affairs.

Fortunately, suspicions if Renard was on the take or any illegal dealings couldn't be substantiated. Officially, he inherited his mother's wealth, sold most of the overseas assets, and built on it by being uncanny good at reading the stock market.

All the above were true… of sorts. Well, except the one about the stocks. That was completely true. The Chief of Police, a former captain of the 3rd Precinct himself, loved Renard's ability to balance their precinct's budget- as long as he wasn't gunning for his job, of course. Having the Chief of Police vouching for Renard made IA back off, though not forgotten.

Wu knows how Renard acquired his fortune. Actually, for accuracy's sake? He knows where the money Renard inherited from his mother came from. After all, he was the one who helped Renard erase the financial details when he discovered why his partner had tampered with evidence on that joint case with the FBI. He wished he didn't because ignorance was bliss. But he's a cop, he doesn't deny how bad things can get. He's not surprised that planned pregnancies aren't always a case of misguided romanticism. So as far as he was concerned- it was rightfully Sean's.

It was surreal sometimes to remember that he's helping hide the fact that the Captain is an illegitimate prince. And that he's protecting him from God Knows Who which family because he doesn't know and Renard wasn't telling.

His own personal- unsanctioned- witness protection program.

Wu casted another considering look over the Captain through his office windows, the binds drawn up for once. It's just as well he had stayed. Renard was under pressure this past year and Wu didn't think it had all to do with the weird cases they had been getting. Or the weirdness that seemed to surround them in general. Having seen them before, Wu recognized the signs of Renard being shifty, knew his tics to keep up appearances, and knew when he's breaking a pattern of behavior. Even if he didn't, getting backlogged with more work than usual because he was waiting on the Captain to finish his end of the paperwork- and then shockingly, have to pick up the Captain's slack!- was a clear indication as any that something was up.

It was surprisingly irritating and he had been ready to confront the Captain when things went back to Status- Mostly Normal.

Still, he's been wondering what he doesn't know. He's beyond reasonable doubt that he doesn't have the whole story. Doesn't want to know. Not until he has to.

But it seemed that time was looming near; he and Sean were going to have a sit down and Talk.

Straightening up, he makes his way to the Captain's office. Some things he wished could be just let lie and buried. Oh, but if wishes were as easy as finding dimes. Can't worry about that now; it was time to interrupt the trio with bad news.

~v-^-v-^-v-^-v~ ~v-^-v-^-v-^-v~

Notes: This is actually a hodge-podge of prompts/requests that I couldn't finish and I'm mushing them together into coherence. And I'm also pulling together into some semblance of a whole the lot of speculations and conversations I had with friends on the answers to questions that Grimm don't seem to want to give us. The show is littered with hints and subtext but they give us nothing! :(

Finally, I'm trying to divert Renard's trajectory on the Path of Doom he seems to be on.

… and I really want Renard mpreg. _

(Btw. Posting fic here now because I needed to edit and the character limit made me feel like I was spamming the comm.)

Wu knows a little bit of a something about Renard that Nick & Hank don't! Just a little bit of a larger, complicated puzzle.

~v-^-v-^-v-^-v~ ~v-^-v-^-v-^-v~


	2. Chapter 2

**The Corpse Apple: Royalty 02**

Description: The cursed laces were undone, and she moved. The cursed hairpin was pulled, and she thought. The cursed apple had been dislodged, and she lived. But this time, the Queen ensured she wouldn't come back right. Slash, het, mpreg, OCs. All characters in the deck. Renard-centric.

Takes place after The Sandman. Some canon divergences from Face-Off. Placing the events of 2.12 Season of the Hexenbiest through 2.15 The Sandman in November 2012.

**Warning: **Trigger warning alert! This fic contains an assortment of triggery content here and there. Nothing explicit though. There are also original characters not from the show. Also included are slash and het couples. And Renard mpreg. (Yes, you read that right.)

A/N: I make no claims of ownership of Grimm and its respective characters. This is not meant to impede anyone on the show their jobs. This is me just thinking about the show. _A lot._ And playing with the Grimm "action figures" and wishful thinking of stuff I'd like to see in fic form.

~v-^-v-^-v-^-v~~v-^-v-^-v-^-v~

_~Chapter 02~_

The trio of weary seelenguter stumbled out her apothecary into the chilly night, clutching their purchases in relief. Clear of all customers, she flips the signage to 'Close' and locks the door. The Black Friday weekend shopping madness wasn't over yet and Rosalee could do with something calming herself. Customers were coming in for herbal remedies to sooth their dispositions and topical salves for minor injuries resulting from participating in the shopping deals that kicked off the Christmas season. The shop regularly saw an increase in those sales during the winter shopping sprees and sports seasons. She'd been quite busy and helping Nick with the Jinnamuru Xunte last week had left her with some annoyed customers finding the shop closed during regular store hours and those with delayed orders.

Some of her customers were worried.

Worried that she wouldn't be able to take care of them like Freddy had. That if she couldn't managed the shop adequately right now, how could they expect to rely on her next year?

Reassurances given that she had the experience, and that she had closed due to emergency circumstances, she sent them on their way hopefully at ease enough that they would not seek out a new supplier. Or invite a new one. Who may have less scruples in dealing with the more inhumane aspects of the black market.

The truth that her Läufer brother had been involved in human organ harvesting had weighed on her. She loved her brother and had always admired his protectiveness; how he was willing to band with other Wesens to protect them all. It was something that helped her recover from her addiction. Though she understood why Freddy made those choices, she didn't like what he did as a Läufer to keep the shop's inventory well-stocked and how he helped aid the Resistance. But she's mostly made peace with it.

And she hopes she will never come to that.

Making up for the lost time, she's been pulling extra hours to keep up with the needs of the Wesen community. She needs their confidence in her abilities so she can do her part in keeping the Wesen community calm. And that meant connecting with as many of the city's resident Wesens as possible to find out what other needs they may have circumstantial to the coming year. With Portland quietly becoming known as a Wesen hotspot, she expected new arrivals looking for safety in numbers. Foresight would be critical. She'll also need to review the shop's purchases and orders from this year, collate it with the projected supplies needed next year- and double her stock. Maybe even triple. Verifying if her suppliers can fill the advance orders and sustained her requests- reach out for new ones just in case- was a job she was not looking forward to. Especially if word has finally gotten around that she's connected with a Grimm.

The undertaking suddenly feels overwhelming and Rosalee shuts her eyes. Calmly plunks her arms on the cashier table, interlocking her fingers, and lets her head fall on them. Taking a deep breath; she clears her mind and gives herself a moment of empty peace, before allowing the realization sink in again.

Next year was the Jahr der Strähnen. Next year also had the Zikade Bezahlung.

Those two train of thoughts were allowed to chase each other seven times before she put the brakes on them. This year had been tumultuous enough, but she has hope that twenty-thirteen wouldn't be as bad as she feared.

They had Nick. That had to count for something.

And she knew Nick's captain was a Royal. He had to be making plans himself.

It was possible that he'll want to tap the shop's resources, but working with Nick's captain filled her with trepidation. She thought of making the first move and initiating contact, but she didn't know him or how much control he had in Portland, and she wanted to speak to Nick and Hank first. Her first impression of the man wasn't exactly positive; at their first meeting he had already rubbed her fur the wrong way. And he was a Royal and had Hexenbiest blood. Neither of which she was willing to place much trust in, especially not when it came to Nick's well-being.

Never in her life she expected to be in this position of looking out for a Grimm from a Royal. She picked up her cell and dialed Nick's number. Nick and Hank needed to know about next year, the sooner the better. Preparations have to be made.

~v-^-v-^-v-^-v~ ~v-^-v-^-v-^-v~

Water samples had been taken, the photo crew did what they could thus far, and they were all waiting for the crime techs to drain and unseal the shower. Occasionally the new photographer interrupted the process to take new shots, in case the new water levels revealed anything. Renard appreciated the man's attention in gathering details. The pump directed the water into the oversized hot tub- already examined itself of course- with filters in place to catch any stray evidence.

Former Sergeant George Singer had retired comfortably and ran a dairy farm with his brother and sister-in-law, who went all out and splurged on the bathroom's interior design. It was quite luxurious and out of place from the rest of the premise. The mirror seemed excessive, he thought. Who kept two full-length mirrors in bathrooms? The optical illusion of repeated reflections created by the two mirrors was in poor taste considering the room's purpose. However they allowed Renard to discretely watch Nick finished his phone conversation to speak with Hank. Whoever the caller was, he suspected the topic was Wesen related based on Hank's reaction.

Credit where it's due. Nick and Hank weren't behaving that much differently and they kept up the appearance of nothing having changed. He could almost believe they decided to let matters drop and move on for the sake of working together to do good. When they were alone however, they were far too courteous to the point that politeness was obviously designed as the cold shoulder.

It was uncomfortable. He's used to the pretense of courtesy hiding daggers from dealing with elements in his Royal life. To be subjected to it by Nick and Hank was… disquieting. It bothered him more than he cared to admit.

Renard much prefer the sass and passive-aggressive wit that Wu inflicted on him whenever his Sergeant had reason to be displeased with him.

The silver lining to his exposure was more people to share the responsibility of covering up Wesen activity and he can openly assign Nick to cases with suspected Wesen involvement.

Nothing about this crime scene identified itself as a Wesen act and Sergeant Singer himself wasn't Wesen; possible the perpetrator was a normal, regular human.

Not that anyone who did this murder should be called a normal.

The murder of a former officer of his precinct definitely warranted his presence. Especially if the press got wind of it and showed up, but they were distracted with chasing this year's anecdotal mishaps and unruly shoppers committing assault and battery in the race to snap up the best deals. They had time without the press interfering for now. But he knew better than to count on that to continue- even if all the uniforms here understood the gravity of the situation- and he hoped to get as much ground covered before they did. He could do without the press breathing down their necks.

Wrung out and mentally battered, night terrors that he could never remember have become a regular occurrence since drinking the concoction the proprietor of the Exotic Spice Shop prepared for him and Juliette. He's doesn't trust her, but he hadn't a choice at the time, not with his tenuous alliance with Nick on the line. At the end of his rope, he kept his composure through sheer resignation and a leap of faith in Nick- he wasn't about to trust either Fuchsbau. Monroe appeared benign enough, if completely graceless. Rosalee Calvert he remembered reading about in Nick's case reports. The sister of Freddy Calvert who took over her brother's shop after his death. Though not his Resistance ties.

From what his sources could tell him, Freddy Calvert was a Fuchsbau affiliated with the Resistance as a black market smuggler and provided refugees with forged documents. One of the Resistance's Läufer members in his city that he was not informed about. That neglected disclosure was something he'll make them pay for in the future. And he hoped that the Resistance leaders weren't so foolish as to divert their members here in the coming year. Alliance or not, they knew Portland was on the Seven Families' radar. Seeking haven here was further inviting the presence of the Verrat.

… and he really didn't want to deal with the additional influx of Resistance members in his city or expend the effort in covering their tracks if they couldn't keep their heads down. Nor did he wanted to deal with the Resistance's internal factions, especially if there were truths in the rumors that the Raufer faction was being revived. Nick encountering them would be a given and he didn't want his Grimm to get comfortable with the idea of having the Resistance as part of Portland's community. Next year would be an ideal environment of forged battle-shared bonds. He could only assumed that was why Nick trusted those two. Very unfortunate in how all the revelations unfolded and that his identity as a Royal was known by two Wesens that he had no control over. He's sure pressing the need for secrecy only fostered mistrust, but he wasn't about to reveal more about himself.

Then there was the matter of Nick's Grimm abilities. Once it was explained what happened with the Jinnamuru Xunte, he knew Nick's blindness would be compensated by jumpstarting his abilities, and the Grimm's situational awareness would be temporarily in high gear before stabilizing. He had to be extra careful in evading Nick's ears for now and started keeping his office door closed more often. The situation was wearisome, keeping him on constant alert yet having to appear that he had some measure of trust in Nick, so he took care to note where Nick was at all times.

"Everything alright, sir?"

Dammit. He was startled and didn't noticed Wu coming up to him.

And judging by the look he was giving him, Wu noticed. Sloppy.

Renard did his best to curb his irritation and refrained from ordering Wu back to his job. He knows Wu has been dealing with more work than usual because of him and as a result he'd been more impatient these days. Alienating himself from his closest colleague who kept his precinct running smoothly was not something he could afford to do. Dealing with Nick and Hank was difficult enough. But he was exhausted and he couldn't help but start to bristle under Wu's scrutinizing gaze when his sergeant's mood changed.

"You've been off this past month and you look like crap," he commented in concern, pausing carefully before pressing on, "Is the cancer back?"

That was the last question he'd ever expect Wu to ask him. It had been the cover story he used so many years ago to explain his absence from the force that he had forgotten about it. Taken aback, Renard quickly thought of a suitable response to defuse Wu's concern. "No, no, it's nothing,"

Too quickly and almost a stutter. Not a suitable response

Taking a step back to fully face Wu and tried again. "I actually forgotten I ever had it," he said truthfully in a distant voice, before switching to a tone sounding curiously worried. "I didn't realized I looked that bad." He'll let Wu assume it was a question and drive the conversation to its end.

He got a slight raise in eyebrows in response.

Wu wasn't biting and was going to push for answers. Dammit. Keeping up appearances around Wu certainly honed his skills at maintaining constant deception when he had an idea of how good Renard was at lying. Sometimes, at the short end of his patience, he wonders if keeping Wu around was necessary anymore.

But coming to his senses he remembers how vital the sergeant is in running the precinct so it operated as a well-oiled machine, not phased by the oddities of some cases, allowing Renard to juggle his other responsibilities as a Royal. He was also the only person remaining he could still trust with his well-being, now that Nick and Hank knew what their captain really was. Though their friendship had long withered away, the ghost of their partnership and what Wu did for him still meant something. Burning that bridge was something he wanted to avoid.

Whatever else that might have been said was cut short by his best detective duo approaching. Hank quietly radiated a low fury and Renard understood; Hank and Singer used to ride together when they were officers at the 1st Precinct.

"Looks like a well-planned job." Hank informed them, his face stony. The assessment was directed more at the sergeant than himself. Renard cursed inwardly at himself. He'd forgotten that Wu had also been on good terms with the former sergeant. In his final year as detective, he had watched Singer, Wu, plus Franco, carried out some of the duties normally handled by a lieutenant. The position that remained empty for several years until he took it upon himself to appoint Franco, the highest ranking sergeant. Franco was currently on vacation, leaving the precinct lieutenant-less once again and he knows either Wu or Hank will be giving him the bad news.

Sergeant Wu pursed his lips and nodded his agreement. "Meaning chances of fingerprints or any evidence: Slim to none."

Shifting and straightening, Hank tucked his anger away. "You see the ear stud? George wasn't the type for that. He used to rib me over my hoops."

Renard looked at Hank. "A message?" he paused, "Hate crime?"

"Only if the killer thought being a self-avowed bachelor meant you weren't straight. Maybe a disturbed stalker?" Hank shook his head. "Studs are pretty common now for it to mean anything."

"He isn't wearing any in the photos outside," Nick interjected.

Renard tipped his head towards where the techs were reaching in to cut the chains and they moved in closer to watch, Nick leading the way. The snick of the sheared chains was too loud in the solemn quiet. They watched as Singer was carefully carried out.

"Singer was no lightweight," Renard observed. The guy was the same height as Nick but bigger, the bulky arms and beneath the white short-sleeved undershirt the impression of defined muscles clearly indicated he stayed in top shape even after retirement.

Nick picked up his train of thought. "Two man job?"

"Maybe." The photographer was done taking new shots and Renard slipped on lab gloves, stepping closer to where Singer had been laid on his side on top the bodybag. "No visible signs of struggle. Doesn't look like he attempted to break free. If he was conscious, he'd have tried to use the cinderblocks to crack the glass. He could have gotten out of these chains." He lifted the gray cuffs of both pants legs to examined Singer's bare feet, the skin only had the slight indentions left from the multiple loopings.

"So, drugged?" Nick stepped around him and squatted down from across. "The perp had to have waited for the shower to fill before leaving. His brother said the water lines were off and his wife went looking for George to ask why."

Renard nodded before moving on to Singer's hands. They had been restrained behind his back with a separate coil. His eyes narrowed as he spotted the familiar zipcord plastic around his wrists. "Hey, get those cutters here."

Wu beckoned for the lab tech with the bolt cutters, and the photographer who had been standing by neatly snapped off a shot at Singer's bound hands before quickly moving aside. Renard carefully unwound the coils.

"Looks like he didn't rely on Singer to stay unconscious." Renard stood up and Nick followed. "We're not going to know anymore until the tox screening. Let's get him to the morgue."

Wu nodded and turned to leave. "I'll let them know."

Hank turned to him once Wu was out of earshot. "Was George a Wesen," he asked quietly.

He didn't react to the blunt question. Hank obviously wanted to know if it was possible they'll be tracking a Wesen murderer. It was a fair question. Wesen victims tended to have Wesen perpetrators. "No. And I can't tell if a Wesen did this."

"What about the set up? Whoever did this went through a lot of trouble. It mean anything?" Nick whispered.

He shook his head slightly. "I can't think of anything."

Nick eyed him suspiciously. "You sure? Anything about this have Wesen meaning?"

"Not that I know of."

"What about rituals?" Nick pressed on.

Renard looked at Nick in wariness

"Does this mean anything to a Hexenbiest?" Nick asked pointedly. He saw what his Grimm was doing: trying to provoke him into revealing anything that he thought his Captain could be hiding.

He stomped on his urge to react to Nick's hostile fishing. "There's nothing more we can do here," he glared at Nick. "Go back to the precinct and see if there are any murders with the same M.O. Wu and I will wrap things up here. In case the press show up." Renard forced himself to remain impassive as he pulled rank. "And see if there's anyone Singer had arrested who'd carry a grudge."

Hank nudged his partner with his elbow and Renard watched them walk out.

~v-^-v-^-v-^-v~ ~v-^-v-^-v-^-v~

"You okay?"

"Me?" Nick glanced away at his monitor to look at him in concern. "I'm more worried about you."

The ride back to the precinct was done in silence. Hank was angry, and when word inevitably made its rounds about how George died, so would be a lot of his fellows in blue. George had been a good friend to Hank, and he was well-liked. His partner mourned his fellow officer, but Nick had never met George though he's heard about him. The decade-long empty lieutenant posting couldn't be explained without mentioning George, Wu, and Franco. George had also been the one to tell him that one of the 3rd Precinct's detectives was going for a lieutenancy and the precinct was feeling short on them. He'd just made detective at the 1st Precinct; and still hurting from his third divorce, he wanted to distract himself- so he had put in an early transfer request for the busier 3rd. It had been great to work in the same precinct as George again and they had two years together before he retired. So when their Sergeant walked in the Captain's office to tell them whose murder they would be investigating, he had gone completely still. Nick had noticed and wordlessly beckoned for his keys to the Mustang.

He's going have to break the terrible news to Franco when he got back. Christ. What a thing for Franco to come back to.

"I'll be fine," Hank logged in and typed in a few search terms. "I'll be even better once we catch this sonuvabitch. You were poking the Captain a little hard back there. How's your, you know… head?"

Nick accepted the change in topic. "I'm okay. Just, it was the scene of it." Nick aimlessly waved a hand at nothing. "Sometimes, I think I should just _know_." Nick typed a little bit harder.

"You could ask him if it works that way." Hank suggested. His partner had bouts of crabbiness trying to figure out the workings of his new hearing and what they termed Nick's Ninja Spidey Sense. Then came the Thanksgiving days' mayhem and all officers had to be on-duty. They all had been working overtime and the exhaustion had driven Nick's hearing nuts. It was wildly unreliable, overwhelming him with trivia background noise at random occasions, rarely when it would have been useful. Hank knows that Nick tried learning how to control his hearing by attempting to eavesdrop on the Captain. All attempts were failures. Hank and Monroe both had to hear how disappointedly useless his so called improved hearing had been so far and how his Ninja Spidey Sense weren't helping him evade stampeding shoppers.

They did thought it was amusingly ironic that it had been a fly-type Wesen that caused his Spiderman-esqu powers.

Nick grunted. "Last resort. Putting off asking him for anything."

Hank could understand that. He didn't want to ask the Captain for anything either. Truth be told, he sure as hell didn't trust Renard at all anymore. There was anger that he had set aside to be dealt with later. Once he processed everything… he was still getting the hang of living in this new world. At some point, he'll have to speak to the Captain. Questions that he needed to be ask, answers that were demanded.

But not now. There were more important things he needed to take care of.

"Got something on ViCAP."

Like hunting down George's killer. "What you got?"

"Bad news." Nick rubbed his face and looked apologetic. "Looks like we're going to hand this over to the FBI."

Scooting out his seat, he came over to Nick's desk, giving the data on his screen a quick once-over. There had been three other victims whose deaths matched George's, one in Florida, the other in Washington, another in California. "Want me to call the Captain?"

Nick reached for the phone. "I'll do it."

Hank went back to his desk and began organizing the case file and notes, angry that the case was out of their hands, and that the scumbag hadn't been caught sooner. Pulling out the necessary forms, he began writing. He expected to turn their evidence over to the FBI and he wanted them out there as quickly as possible before the trail went cold.

"Captain is almost back. Said he'll call them when he gets here." Nick looked at him and got his cellphone out. "I'll call Rosalee to let her know that we'll try to swing by the shop tomorrow if we get a break."

Whatever Rosalee needed to tell them, he knew he was going to be unhappy to hear it.

~v-^-v-^-v-^-v~ ~v-^-v-^-v-^-v~

The fax machine spat out advisory details on warnings and possible leads and the information on the team that would be here in the morning from New York. The Unit Chief in Quantico informed the Captain that these murders were currently one of their units' cases, that there will be two more victims and to be on alert for abductions.

Taking the sheets to the Captain, Wu looked over the information sent. The name of the agent in charge caught his eyes.

Wu stared.

Oh boy howdy crap, crap, crap. And crap.

He was just thinking about their past case with the FBI today and now _he_ was coming back here. It must have been a subconscious warning. He must be psychic. Maybe he jinxed it all by dwelling on the past and the universe was punishing him. Or maybe he just had good timing.

He glanced up with a start and look around in surprise when he realized he had somehow unconsciously made his way from the fax machine into the Captain's office.

That office's captain was staring at him oddly. "Sergeant?"

Well, at least it was him giving the news and not Hank or Nick. "Details of Doom and Gloom from the FBI Unit Chief." He passed the paper over to Renard. "Both officially and personally. And when I mean personally, I mean personally. For you. Because guess who's coming in?"

Wu ignored the Captain's frown at his dramatic, quite out-of-line- insubordinate pronouncement. He didn't care because he totally earned this moment to sass at Renard. Besides, he's probably going to have to suspend his snarking rights at the Captain for the oncoming days.

Wu waited for Renard to react. There was a twitch in Renard's left hand and a barely noticeable stiffening that Wu knew to look for. He let Renard stare at the sheet of paper, waiting for him to break the silence. Slowly, Renard set the paper down and leaned back into his chair, interlocking his fingers on his lap. "It's been a long time since I've spoken to Agent Takemori." The quiet and emotionally flat statement betrayed the agitation that Renard kept behind a blank face.

The Captain looked up at Wu. "Tell Nick and Hank that this has become a joint case with the FBI." He paused, then shook his head before continuing. "We'll deal with any bumps in the road as they come."

Sergeant Wu walked out. Well, there's some good news. He was about to give maybe-good-news for Hank that they'll be working alongside the FBI to catch George's killer. Bad news was that there might be a turf war between Captain Renard and Agent Takemori.

More bad news was that a turf war would be the least of it.

Oh yeah. He knows what the forecast for the weather in their little group was going to be.

Complicated. And awkward.

~v-^-v-^-v-^-v~ ~v-^-v-^-v-^-v~

Renard stared at the screen of his laptop without seeing it, processing this unwelcome development and considering how to deal with Takemori when he arrived. Anticipating what problems Agent Takemori can cause against him professionally and what grievances he might still hold. He thinks he can handle that. The R-Stiltskins Case was solidly closed and all parties tied up the loose ends, mutually keeping each other's involvement a secret. There was little Takemori could do from that angle- not without damaging his own career.

What he's not prepared to handle was the threat Kenneth Takemori presented as a Royal.

Prince Kenneth had been building Portland as his territory. But Ken had made himself vulnerable when he participated in their cover-up. It created an opportunity that was too good for Renard to pass by and he ousted Ken in order to establish himself as the Royal of Portland- earning his official legitimacy. But his hold over Portland was far from absolute; in fact it seemed to be slipping and he would be in a difficult position of opposing Ken if he was planning to supplant him in return.

This was someone he couldn't dispatch without fatal consequences to himself. Not like he was able to eliminate Anton Krug for entering his canton and threatening him.

And unlike Anton, Ken's mere presence could jeopardize Renard's own status in the coming year when Wesens would be looking for someone who could provide them with protection.

Next year was the Year of Wisps, and if that wasn't bad enough, so was the Zikade Bezahlung. As a city with a sizable Wesen community, he would have little justification in attacking Takemori. Rejecting the presence of a Royal from the Soga-Abe Clan during the coming year would raise too many questions and unwanted curiosity among the Seven Families. Regardless if that Royal was whom he stole Portland from. And he _absolutely did not_ want Eric to come to Portland to investigate himself.

It was too risky to have his family know that he forced Prince Kenneth to cede Portland and what the terms of cession were. Even though the feat was worthy of respect by their standards, he no longer had the necessary proof. Only his word against Ken's, and that he had been able to govern Portland without retaliation. Relinquishing the evidence and his memory of it had been part of their deal. The discovery of the truth would undermine his remaining hold over Ken. If the passage of time hadn't already.

And it's been eight years. He'll be operating blind. The FBI profession made keeping tabs on Ken's Royal activities and whereabout too risky and difficult. All those years ago, he could only trust that Ken kept to their terms of agreement long enough for Renard to increase his influence of power.

He clenches his teeth to force down his agitation. Ken's presence couldn't be a coincidence. He had to have engineered this somehow.

Forcing himself to remain visibly calm, he mentally runs through all the possibilities.

That Takemori was acting on the information that Nick guarded one of the Keys. That he was also looking to secure the Grimm's alliance. It would certainly help Ken retake control of Portland.

Doubtful that Ken would be following the trail of the Coins of Zakynthos, though Renard did half-expect someone from one of the Five Clans to investigate Kimura's death and deface his kokkuri-om. If not them then another member of the Dragon's Tongue. He was honestly quite surprised when no one did. He had been looking forward to making an exchange for Kimura's flayed back, but eventually burnt it when he began experiencing a sickening pull every time he entered his penthouse.

Those damn coins had an unnerving far reach.

Whatever the reason, he highly doubt Ken didn't have a vendetta and was here to help. His leather seat creaked as he shifted in frustration. How ironic. One hundred and nineteen years; the Zikade Bezahlung and the Year of Wisps have coincided. The year in which he expected to be most empowered by his Hexenbiest heritage was also the time his status as the governing Royal would be the most tenuous.

Renard almost wished they only had to deal with swarms of normal, non-magical cicadas emerging from hibernation instead of the surge of magical power that was coming.

A twinge in his jaw and he realized how hard he'd been clenching his teeth. Irritated at his loss of control, he folded his hands, forcing himself to focus. He turned his attention to the amethyst sitting on his desk and channeled his ire at it. The geode had been Ken's parting gift, mocking him more effectively than if he'd given a sword to hang. He would have thrown it out, but it had been part of their pact; a warning to be on guard against the dangers of accepting drinks and meals from anyone. Not that it wasn't good advice.

And it _was_ useful as a discreet reminder of the threat other Royals posed to him; whether they be from the Families, Clans, or Dynasties.

He reached out and picked up the rock, running his thumb over the crystal edges thoughtfully. Funny how little he thought about Ken when he had his gift right in front of him. Perhaps it was just as well. Nostalgia wasn't going to be a hindrance.

This city was his and he was not going to let anyone take it without a fight.

~v-^-v-^-v-^-v~ ~v-^-v-^-v-^-v~

Notes: German is done by google translate. Sorry for any errors, accidental euphemisms or offenses. Läufer, Raufer, or Lauffeuer. I'm not sure which one the show was going for. So I'm using them all.

Zikade Bezahlung = Cicada Payment

Jahr der Strähnen = Year of Wisps

kokkuri-om = Kokkuri is Japanese ouija. 'Om' is a Sanskrit sound. If you see Buddhist monks chanting on tv, it's usually the starting syllable.

Trivia:

amethyst = ancient use as superstitious charm that protects against drunkenness or facilitates healing and staying level-headed in battle. There's one on Renard's work desk.

cicada swarm = There's a cicada species in the USA that emerges into adulthood every 17 years. This year in fact. Right now. (Or not. It's not May anymore.)

~v-^-v-^-v-^-v~ ~v-^-v-^-v-^-v~


	3. Chapter 3

**The Corpse Apple: Royalty 03**

Description: The cursed laces were undone, and she moved. The cursed hairpin was pulled, and she thought. The cursed apple had been dislodged, and she lived. But this time, the Queen ensured she wouldn't come back right. Slash, het, mpreg, OCs. All characters in the deck. Renard-centric.

Takes place after The Sandman. Some canon divergences from Face-Off. Placing the events of 2.12 Season of the Hexenbiest through 2.15 The Sandman in November 2012.

**Warning: **Trigger warning alert! This fic contains an assortment of triggery content here and there. Nothing explicit though. There are also original characters not from the show. Also included are slash and het couples. And Renard mpreg. (Yes, you read that right.)

A/N: I make no claims of ownership of Grimm and its respective characters. This is not meant to impede anyone on the show their jobs. This is me just thinking about the show. _A lot._ And playing with the Grimm "action figures" and wishful thinking of stuff I'd like to see in fic form.

~v-^-v-^-v-^-v~ ~v-^-v-^-v-^-v~

_~Chapter 03~_

Renard snaps awake, unsure what woke him. He wants to sit up but he can't move. Alarmed, he tries to look around, but it's too dark to see anything. He keeps his breathing even; if the intruder was present he didn't want them alerted, but he doesn't sense anyone. Concentrating, he remembers what his limbs felt like, how they functioned, and he awkwardly shifts a leg. He's about to try again when a hand settles on his knee, and he tenses as it lazily trails up, clamping and pressing fingers into his inner thigh, rubbing him possessively. Slowly the hand works its way up to his crotch. Squirming in sudden fear, he's able to clumsily move an arm and tries to stop the invasive hand.

He reaches nothing, and a thumb painfully digs into a nerve before the hand removes itself to grab his wrist. A hard wrench and his hand cracks against the wooden headboard. A stinging blow to his cheek that whips his head to the side and he's panicking. He still can't see anything. Another hand slips underneath his pajama shirt, nails drawing against his ribs, then toying with the waistband of his pants. Seized by terror, he forces himself to move.

Stomach twisting, breathing catches in his throat, choking him, and he wakes up in the split second of mid-fall.

Gasping for breath and wincing in pain, it takes a moment to comprehend that he'd fallen off his bed.

With a grunt, he sits up and touches his right temple, having collided against the edge of his bedside table on his way down. The pain was mild, and it wasn't something that needed to be worried over. He gets up and carefully sinks back down on his latest bed, letting the lush comfort sooth him. Getting his breathing under control, he shuts his eyes and tries to remember what happened but his mind can't recall anything but fear.

Again, he's considering going back to that Fuchsbau's shop.

The first two nights after drinking Rosalee's cure had been the worst of it so far. He had been violently woken up to find himself retching yellow and black bile. The stink of it couldn't be completely removed and he decided it was easier to just buy a new mattress again, the previous one having been torn apart by Kimura's search for the coins. Then came the dreams of Juliette demanding his attention, indulging herself with the planes and lines of his body when he rejected her. Thankfully, those only lasted a few nights.

Next came the dreams he couldn't remember, waking up in cold sweat, leaving him with the lingering sense of fear.

He wonders again if maybe it was a reaction to the extra pressure he's been under this year, and readjusting to regaining control over his own mind. He's still feeling mentally frayed from the magical ensnarement with Juliette. Even now he can still remember what it felt like to be in love with Juliette and he has to remind himself that she was Nick's. It had been tempting to give himself into the magic, enticing him to lose control and make his love for Juliette reality, but he was able to resist then, he wasn't about to give in now. Though he may have underestimated the strain the constant effort in disassociating the induced emotions of affection and desire would be on him.

Just like he underestimated Catherine. He tries to avoid thinking about her- and Adalind. Coming to terms with having slept with both mother and daughter was something he still needs to do- when he's ready to be repulsed by himself. He had been humoring Adalind when he said he'd underestimated her. He's pretty sure it hadn't been her original intention for him to get caught up in her revenge against Nick. He's not too concerned with what information Adalind could give to Eric; her silly infatuation made it easy for him to tell her as little as possible. Hopefully, this meant Eric will dispose of her for him and that morning will be the last he'll ever see of Adalind. He admittedly was mildly concerned that Eric would keep her around as an unpleasant memory to use against him.

And with Eric and Anton's warning that the Families were feeling more intolerant of his existence these days, he had become more vigilant about his safety. As a precaution, he's been cycling through two other vacant rooms along with his penthouse more often. Being the landlord of The Caspar David had its advantages, aside from being free to know who his tenants, employees, and what their backgrounds are. He recently had rechecked all their current activities for any changes that would make them open to bribes or blackmail.

Yes, there were more likely explanations for his current sleep problems. The cure might be exacerbating his stress as a natural reaction and he'll wait a bit longer to see if his latest affliction tapers off. They were only dreams. He doesn't want to make unnecessary visits to Nick's friends. The details of the exact nature of what was plaguing him wasn't something he wanted to disclose to a stranger. Who most assuredly would pass the information to Nick.

Decision made, Renard opens his eyes and turns towards his digital clock. He's shock to see it's nearly seven. Spurred out of bed, he rushes to the washroom. Now he's really annoyed. He hopes Ken doesn't arrive at the precinct before him.

It's when he's reaching for the faucet handle that he sees it. The developing bruise on the back of his hand, a split in the skin over his knuckles.

Bringing his hand closer, he's examining the light purple mottling when the memory hits him.

Remembers someone- something- grabbing his hand and slamming it against the headboard-

-and he's gripping the edge of the sink. There was more. He knows there was more-

-but there's no time for this right now and he jerks into his partial Zauberbiest form, ignoring the spasm of transformational pain. He hates doing this- shifting into woge- but it's too soon for new injuries following the ones he received from his fight with Nick in the woods. He doesn't need more questioning looks about the new bruises. It has been eight years and he's not going to appear weak in front of Takemori after so long. So he bears the eerie sensation of jagged rippling, the magic in him unstable, pooling then winding beneath his skin. Always in constant motion, unable to complete itself. Lacking the cohesion of a true Biest, he has never experienced the rush their flow of power brought. He has to suffer the disconnected feeling that pieces of himself were seeking out proper places; his Biest powers there but the connection was weak and the effort difficult to maintain. Some completely out of his reach.

His breath quickens in discomfort as he concentrates on drawing out his regenerative ability. Grasping the tendrils of power, he readies himself. A sudden swell of sensory input that he couldn't understand, and he closes his remaining eye to block out the cacophony that has only gotten louder as he aged. Doesn't bother covering his ears- it did nothing to deaden the colors he can hear, courtesy of his single Zauberbiest ear. Remembers how to control what power he had, how it felt as energy shifted and knitted around injuries. Remembers the experiments with cuts and bruises that were successes. Snarls in frustration as other memories intruded. Memories that were suppose to be long buried being useless. He shakes his head- shoves aside the offending memories of measuring his tolerance and sensitivity levels. Ignores the tests in water and darkness that were failures. Ignores the sudden phantom smell of his blood that turned his stomach.

He braces himself for another burst of pain and rises away from the woge.

During his free time, he's going to put plans in place to kill Adalind if she ever steps foot in Portland. Or have her hunted down, Old World boundaries be damned.

Renard checks himself in the mirror and the back of his hand. The signs of injury faint when under close scrutiny.

It'll have to do.

~v-^-v-^-v-^-v~ ~v-^-v-^-v-^-v~

Deftly avoiding the slippery spots left by the early morning rain, Nick crossed the street to the station. He had left Hank and Wu to gather the morgue details last night, knowing that they would be pulling at least another hour and preparing all the evidence. There was nothing to do but paperwork and at least one of them should be operating on enough sleep. Energized by a good six hour rest, he hoped the other two managed to catch at least four hours.

Coffee in each hand, a bag of danishes and cheese rolls in the crook of his arm; Nick pushed through the station's doors with a shoulder and set a coffee beside Hank's current cup, plopping the bag of pastries between their desks.

"Bless the coffee deities." Hank downed his first cup, before sipping with pleasure at his second. "Thanks, man." Hank peered into the bag. "Extras for Wu?" he asked before grabbing a berry danish.

"Yep. And no problem. When did you get in?"

"Ten minutes ago. Was going to help Wu set up, but turns out he already had the conference room ready."

"What, already?" Nick exclaimed around a mouthful of his spinach cheese roll. "Did Wu even go home?"

"I think he got it done while the Captain was contacting the other agencies and the press to release an advisory warning. The Captain probably helped. He was going over logistics when I left." Hank grunted. "Looked like it sailed over quietly. I saw the breaking report."

Nick wasn't surprised at the apparent apathetic reaction. It was a late night and early morning news. The Captain also wouldn't have released the detail that Singer was a former cop to the media, instead stressing that the public needed to be aware of a potential serial kidnapper still present in Portland and whom were at risk as likely targets. And with the holiday sales still going strong and Portland's general weirdness, the news won't be generating a media circus yet. The lack of reaction was a disappointing reality check, but it was good to know they didn't have to contend with media interference so far.

"You two find anything at the morgue?" Nick asked.

"Nothing." Hank started on his second pastry, disturbed that Singer's death was part of a larger string of abductions. "Just some leftover dinner that's being analyzed. Monroe know anything?"

"Nothing either." Nick had spoken to Monroe last night to see if anything about the M.O. struck him as anything Wesen-related. He almost wished it was a Wesen. A Wesen driven by tradition, biology, or ritualistic greed made them more predictable and trackable. But Monroe had never heard of anything like it.

It was quite possible it was just a crazy Wesen, no different than a crazy normal human.

And that was worse. There had been twenty-six abductions to date. Always three victims in a locale. With the inclusion of Singer- six of them ended in deaths. Two of which were discovered too late by the FBI currently investigating the abduction incidents in New York. The two notices sent about the newly found deceased was the last thing Nick reviewed before he left for Monroe's.

If it was a Wesen, they had to catch the perp here in Portland before he snatched two more people and moved on where Nick couldn't follow. He expects the Captain to try to keep the teams separated so he and Hank can contain the Wesen if needed. He doesn't need to raise suspicions of questionable behavior after becoming a suspect for the murders committed by the Mauvais Dentes. Hiding his Grimm activities from the profiling eyes of the FBI was not something he was looking forward towards. It was a five member team and he wondered if he was going to be separated from Hank in a division of partnering. Speaking of the FBI...

The two black suits that were heading towards Wu must be them.

Hank followed his line of sight and they watched Wu lead them into the conference room. "They wasted no time in getting here," Hank commented in approval. "Wonder where the other three are? Looks like Wu's getting reacquainted."

Nick nodded, watching the conference doors for Wu to wave them in. "So that's Takemori." Nick polished off his breakfast and folded down the pastry bag. It was a safe assumption to make. The agent in charge would want to meet the Captain immediately. And he looked like someone who would be in charge.

"You think we're in for a tug-o-war?" Hank asked, clearly knowing what was on their minds. They both didn't miss the way how heads were turning to look at the tall Japanese man in the well-tailored suit. His blonde female partner was almost hidden at his side.

"I dunno." Wu had told them that the team coming in had prior history with the Captain and himself. It wouldn't be their first time working with this team. The partnership had its rocky moments but it all worked out. But he still expected some head-butting. He hadn't given them any details more than that. "Wu doesn't seem to have a problem with them. Guess we'll just have to wait to see what happens with the Captain." Nick glanced at his watch. "When he gets here."

"Would have expected him to be early," Hank reflected.

Nick gave a slight frown. "Maybe he got held up with… whatever it is that he does." Royals had become a mysterious bunch over the centuries and knowledge about them had faded. Monroe and Rosalee couldn't tell him much except that Royals had been domineering rulers that still held power over Wesens in the Old Worlds, though currently their control was kept in check from becoming flagrant tyranny by the Wesen Council and as a result of times changing globally.

"You still haven't talked to him about that yet?" Hank looked at his partner worriedly. Like Nick, he got the two important messages in the conversations with Monroe and Rosalee: Avoid catching the attention of Royals because getting involved in their affairs was something you Did Not Want To Do. And the Captain could mean trouble. Royals were like Coyotls- they kept track of their kind and simply do not leave members with their bloodline free to be. Unlike Coyotls, Royals historically tended to destroy and salt any associated ties.

Under further conversation in an attempt to add up all the pieces, they all speculated it was unlikely that the Captain's original reason to be in Portland had anything to do with Nick or the Key. It was only about to hit the three year mark that Nick and Hank have known the Captain, and remembering what Wu told them, Renard lived in Portland since at least his Academy days. If there wasn't the fact that the Captain was capable of manipulating things in secret, Nick would have said he's known about Renard longer from their precinct's gossip mill than Renard knew about him.

The 3rd Precinct's mysterious wealthy detective with an excellent closing rate. It was Detective Renard's shoes that he and Hank were filling when they accepted the detective posting at the 3rd.

They concluded that he was in exile or an unaffiliated stray. Something that worried their two Wesen friends.

"Hadn't found a good time." Nick absentmindedly played with his coffee cup. "I want to see if there's anything on Royals in the trailer first." He grimaced at the idea of having to carefully sift through all the tomes' disorganized contents. His initial searches turned up nothing on Royals. If the information was there, he hadn't found it yet or was in a language neither he nor Monroe could read and they had missed it. "We're thinking of asking Rosalee to help but she's been really busy. And I have new questions for her. I've been wondering if the Resistance knows about him."

"Good plan."

Nick looked at his partner. "What about you?"

Hank sighed. "I need more time. I'm not ready to ask questions." Hank leaned back into his chair. "Maybe I'll sit in when you talk to Rosalee. She wanted to see us about something, remember?"

"Just so you know, he has a hard head." Nick joked lightly.

"I'll be on guard for his superstrength." Hank replied, remembering that Nick told him that Adalind had been supernaturally strong for her size.

"You know, I'm not sure about that." Nick drained the rest of his coffee thoughtfully as he quickly recall the physical scuffle he had with Renard. "He was either holding back or he doesn't have it. Or not all of it."

"Captain's already a big guy. I'm not sure I want to know how much more power he can pack in a punch." Hank smirked at him. "How the hell did you reach him anyway? Tippy-toed?"

He flung his empty coffee cup at Hank. "I'm not that short!" he mock protested. "He's not so big when I was mad at him." Wu then appeared in the doorway and waved at them. "Showtime. You gonna be okay?"

"Don't worry about me. They do their job, I'll do mine." Hank stood up, determination replacing his laid back attitude. "I'm all pro. We're gonna get this sonvabitch."

~v-^-v-^-v-^-v~ ~v-^-v-^-v-^-v~

Agent Takemori was more imposing up close, even with the haggardness of someone who has been pulling long nights and little sleep; the crisp suit jacket clearly worn for several days straight. He'd place the Captain as having two inches- maybe three- over Takemori. With a medium haircut and stubble, he looked every inch like a business executive. Hank was pretty sure he was also quite athletically built underneath the suit. This was one good looking guy, who definitely knew it, and everything flagged him as an alpha male.

Hank knew exactly what his partner was thinking. It was the same thing he was thinking.

And knowing what they did now about the Captain?

… both knew they were going to see a clash between the Captain and Takemori.

The Captain was going to be so annoyed that he's the last to arrive.

Crap. He hoped the two kept it between themselves.

Standing in front of a laptop was Takemori's lithe female partner; appearing unobtrusive, whether by exhaustion or nature he didn't know, but he didn't miss the alert hazel eyes that quickly studied them in return, though they never turned critical. On second look, she was Latina with dyed blonde hair, peeping dark roots revealed by her hair pulled back in a simple ponytail.

"Okay! Introductions." Wu half-pivoted and stepped to the side, keeping himself between the two parties. Hank relaxed a bit, catching sight of the warm amusement on both agents. Wu must have parted with them on good terms. "Detectives Hank Griffin and his partner Nick Burkhardt," Wu gestured at each group with one open hand, "Special Agent in Charge Kenneth Takemori, and Special Agent Katie Diaz, of the BAU Unit 7B."

"Detectives." Takemori spoke in a low voice, his hand reaching out to Hank first. "We're sorry for your loss."

"Thank you. George was a good man." Hank accepted the firm handshake and nodded at Agent Diaz as he stepped aside for Nick.

Wu interrupted before the moment could get awkward. "We already issued a warning through the media to stay in groups and sent an alert to be on a lookout for suspicious persons. There's been no new incidents or missing persons reported yet." Wu continued gravely, "So far we haven't uncovered anything we can trace."

"A member of my team is still in New York looking to find any commonalities that these unsubs are using to choose the victims. The other two are already heading to your crime scene." Takemori nodded at Wu. "I thank your Sergeant for keeping us up to date and clearing it with your captain last night."

Agent Takemori abruptly looked behind them.

The Captain had entered the room.

"Sean, it's been a long awhile," Takemori greeted the Captain reservedly, but surprisingly, not without a trace of warmth.

A unmissable half-beat before the Captain returned the greeting, the room temperature plunging and thickening with stillness.

"Ken," the Captain returned expressionlessly. "Your Unit Chief seemed to be unaware we've worked together before."

Hank remained visible unruffled, hiding his disbelief, and privately thanked Wu for giving them the heads up. That had been right-off-the-bat insinuating. For the very first time they were witnessing the Captain as the initiator of a jurisdictional conflict.

"New chief," Takemori smirked. "Our Unit Chief retired only a few days ago. He had quite a good tenure."

"May we all be so lucky," the Captain responded in guarded politeness, never taking his eyes off Takemori, sizing him up.

"Great!" Wu quickly moved over to the Captain's side. "We're all here. Except for Gallardo, Ford, and Mustang, of course."

While thankful that Wu was cutting the palpable tension in the room, Hank had to cocked an eyebrow at the slight humorous tone. Admittedly, he and Nick had also shared an incredulous amused moment at the names when reviewing the personnel notice. Agent Diaz, he noticed, appreciated Wu's intervention.

The silent confrontation deflected, Takemori's smirk eased into a cool smile. "Shall we carry on?"

"Let's." The Captain nodded at Agent Diaz in and she tilted her head at him in acknowledgment. "You believe that the perps will be collecting two more victims here regardless that our law enforcement officers will be out for their blood." Stopping in front of him and Nick, Renard shifted stance, dialing down his cold standoffishness into something more akin to the polite professional reservedness that Hank was used to seeing when the Captain dealt with people he didn't like. "I went over the data that was sent. What's your plan?" He wasn't sure if it was his imagination or not, but Hank wanted to believe there wasn't a note of challenge in Renard's last question.

"These unsubs are either well-prepared and knowledgeable enough to abduct their victims on short notice, or this is result of a thorough long-term planning. There's no clear indication that they're working with a list." Takemori matched the Captain in reservedness. "We'll need your people to be on the look-out and to question the proprietors of potential sites that the unsubs may use. Any storage large enough to arrange a body to the unsub's satisfaction. And to see if there's a paper trail for the supplies they're using, car rentals, thefts. We know this has to be the work of at least two people. Our best hope lies in attentive bystanders. We still don't have any eyewitnesses. How did the media release go?" Takemori kept his voice level, and Hank noticed the way his eyes studied the Captain. He recognized that look. It was the way people looked at someone when they finally see the changes in a person. It was a look that had been on Nick's face for awhile. His too.

The Captain bore the scrutiny, and if Hank wasn't mistaken, with an undercurrent of defiance as he disinterestedly listed off the disclosed details. "The public has been alerted that there's a serial kidnapper in Portland with a penchant for drowning his victims in large bodies of water within close proximity to company. Using Rohypnol to incapacitate. At risk is anyone who is physical fit, active, has a steady income and living alone or with few other residents. They've been advised to stay with someone at all times and be vigilant about their drinks and meals." The Captain continued with some grimness, "We don't expect the alert to catch on yet. It has been rereleased this morning throughout the media outlets. And it's still the Thanksgiving weekend."

Takemori's mouth tightened in understanding, or perhaps it was a reaction to their little circling and testing. "Unfortunately, we expect the only way to catch these unsubs is during the act or as they flee the scene," he admits with chagrin. "How do you want to split the teams?" he asked, conceding that the Captain would know how to divide the man power on his home turf.

The Captain gestured to the map marked with circles and dotted with pins. Hank noticed that the target parameters included all of their districts and the edges of the other two precincts'. "The patrol units will speak to the people at possible sites that are along their routes. I've asked the 1st and 2nd Precinct to do the same. Detectives Burkhardt and Griffin will reach out to the hardware suppliers and contractors for any suspicious orders, such as industrial clear acrylic and glass." Hank knew part of that assignment would be easy with Bud and his friends to help.

"I assume you'll want Sergeant Wu and Agent Diaz to go over car rentals, thefts, and cross-examine them with passenger lists of flight records," the Captain asked. Takemori nodded in confirmation.

The Captain paused and his eyes turning resolute with some defiance. "You and I will be following up on George Singer's last known whereabouts. We'll coordinate with our members from those leads if need be."

Hank darted at quick glance at Wu and Diaz. They were completely poker-faced.

Agent Takemori didn't seemed bothered- in fact he was giving the Captain a small wry smile. The Captain, for his part, had turned to rigid stone.

Whatever animosity those two had was something to be curious about another time. He was more concerned with the Captain's ability to do his job properly. A notion that wouldn't have occurred to him before. Before he knew what the Captain really was and what he had been done. If the Captain dropped the ball, he hoped Takemori wouldn't have a problem picking up.

"Who do you have on the ground here?" the Captain asked.

"Gallardo and Ford. They'll be heading to your morgue after they finish looking at the crime scene."

The Captain looked liked he expected as much. The misgivings Hank had were lessened. The Captain and this FBI team must have worked closely together long enough in the past for him to be familiar with their dynamics. This should work in their favor.

"I'll let the morgue techs know. If that's all?"

Hank was feeling further relieved there was no trace of challenge from the Captain in that last question. Maybe this won't be so bad.

Takemori cooperatively concurred with the Captain's choices. "No, we can start the conference. Call the rest of your officers."

~v-^-v-^-v-^-v~ ~v-^-v-^-v-^-v~

The Captain had pulled in detectives from the Missing Persons and Sex Crimes division, along with present patrol officers. The air in the conference was tense, yet determined. No one was forgetting that one of their own had been murdered and they all were attentive. Nick put all thoughts about the meeting between the Captain and Takemori out of his mind, watching Agent Diaz take the mic and bring up a map listing the crime sites on the projector screen.

"There have been sets of serial kidnappings that has been occurring across state lines since the beginning of this year. Victims are first reported missing, and then found. Rohypnol is the unsub's tranquilizer of choice to incapacitate. We believe this drug is chosen for its high chance for retrograde amnesia. All survivors interviewed were unable to recall anything that lead to their abduction. However, none were sexually assaulted. These abductions also always occur in sets of three in the same city. The victims are then placed in settings where they can easily be found by bystanders who recognize the scene as an emergency. The likelihood of the abductee being resuscitated is intentional. We believe this began with one person who was fixated with the image of the fairytale Briar Rose, more commonly known as Sleeping Beauty."

Nick remembered that in the data file sent. He grimaced to himself. Every time that fairy tale came up he couldn't help but be reminded of Juliette in her coma and what had to happen for her to wake up. He thinks he's going to enjoy taking down these kidnappers. Noticing that his attention had wandered, he refocuses on Agent Diaz, her voice had a faint huskiness that made the presentation clear- easy to follow, and he backtracked to the few seconds that he missed.

"In the first half of this year, victims were found posed and lying amongst arrangements of flowers, comprised mostly of roses. They were all found barefooted and their shoes stolen. The socks discarded on site. All the stolen footwear have yet to be recovered. We have ten survivors that share the same situational details. Because the crime occurs in threes, we know two victims are unaccounted for, and we presume are dead." Agent Diaz brought up new photographs. These set ups resembled Singer's death. Some were empty, the abductees having been rescued. Some were not, and the deceased were bound in a variation of poses meant to look artistic.

"In June, the unsub changed M.O. during his time in California. Three abductions occurred in Southern California. Then three abductions occurred in Northern California with the victims posed in water. Given the difference in difficulty of managing such a scene, we think the unsub has picked up at least one accomplice. New changes include the addition of an ear stud. We suspect that the unsubs have moved to the fairy-tale Snow White and the ear stud represents the hairpin. The chains are the laces, the tranquilizer the apple, and the watery staging is the coffin. Since June there has been sixteen abductions, and out of those- ten survivors." The photographs were whisked away and minimized to the top of the screen.

"There's no doubt that they knew George Singer was a former officer. But these unsubs will not be running. Not until they have two more victims. They are on alert and moving fast. The last four victims were abducted within a short time span of each other." Photos of four attractive people were called forward, one of them was Singer. "In New York, Jason Phillips was reported missing on November 20th in the early evening and his time of death was placed at eleven in the same night. Vicky Rodriguez was found by co-workers at a botanical garden and revived November 22nd at nine pm. Diane Stoneson's time of death was the 23rd at seven in the morning in New York. Less than forty-eight hours later on the 24th, George Singer's time of death is estimated at seven pm."

Multiple maps of all the cities where the abductions have happened appeared on screen. "These unsubs have stayed within a certain radius since the first kidnappings. Suggesting they've focused on studying everything about an area and the people in it. Chains, sealant, glass, bricks, and other materials used in each crime have been traced to belonging to the vicinity or bought from local businesses. Because of this, and the apparent randomness of victims, and sites chosen, we are not assuming they have a list of premeditated victims. Instead are taking advantage of opportunities." The maps were minimized and new photographs put up.

They were pictures of all the victims. Most of them a full body view displaying their toned bodies.

"We don't know why these unsubs have decided to not lay low. We do know that the unsubs are picking their targets based on physical fitness, attractiveness, and social lifestyle. Preferential targets are healthy, athletic individuals who are more likely to be successfully resuscitated from a drowning. They are choosing attractive individuals with no regards to gender, race, orientation, religion, or any other personal background details. But who live in a semi-solitary lifestyle, with a stable income, and who keep a small circle of company on a regular basis." Agent Diaz turned towards the Captain. "Captain Renard?"

The Captain took the mic from her and clipped it on his collar. "Thank you, Agent Diaz."

He already knows how the Captain is assigning the scouting details and Nick listens with half an ear, just in case Renard changes his mind.

Instincts tell him that there is something Wesen about these kidnappings. The FBI thought that it was more than one person doing this, but off the top of his head he can think of a few Wesens that were capable of this solo.

Siegbarstes or Schakals. Ziegvolks. Hexenbiests.

They were being dismissed and Nick looked at his partner. "Ready to go?"

"Not yet. Let's take a look at the supply list again. See where the perps have been picking up their stuff."

~v-^-v-^-v-^-v~ ~v-^-v-^-v-^-v~

Nick and Hank were standing nearby looking over the materials the perps had used that had been coordinated with the list of victim sites. Renard was close by, eavesdropping on the conversations around him. Keeping his flustered nerves under tight wraps. All worries of another Royal in his city and the formulations of contingency plans came to a halt when he laid eyes on Ken. The gulf of eight years stretched between them like an invisible wall before vanishing in a snap- as if the memories were only yesterday. Memories that he had happily let time weathered away.

Rather than dwell on Ken, Renard reviewed the crime scene photos of past abductions as he waited for him to finish speaking to Wu and Diaz. Nothing about the crime struck him as something any Wesen that he knew about would do. It seemed to be the work of a disturbed person who fancied themselves an artist. However, the timing of the recent victims was unusual. It could be a matter of the authorities hot on the trail and the killers had a personal timetable to complete. Or it could be Wesens who needed these kidnappings finished before the year was over. Which meant these abductions would be relevant to next year and magic was involved.

That was alarming. It would mean that these kidnappers have been preparing since the year began. He'll find out more when he can speak to Ken privately about the details that couldn't be openly shared.

The soft sound of the vibrating alert hummed nearby and Ken pulled out his phone. "Good morning. No, now is not a bad time," Ken assured with a relaxed smile that carried through his low baritone voice. "How was your Thanksgiving dinner, honey?"

Honey? If Ken had a woman in his life and was looking to settle down, then it's not surprising that he'd return to Portland to roost. It meant he could expect Ken to transfer to the FBI's Portland field office. A more stationary posting that would allow him to protect his family. It could be advantageous to have a Soga-Abe Royal in Portland, but he would only allow that to happen on his terms. He couldn't hear the speaker on the other end and paid closer attention to Ken, watching his body language surreptitiously. He was sure Ken was aware of what he was doing, but there were appearances to maintain. It was always important to find out what ties a person had and how much those bonds mattered. He wondered if it was anyone he had knowledge of. Relationships amongst Royals had always been reliable tell-tale signs of suspicious activity or allegiances.

Judging by the conversation, his lady friend had postpone their Thanksgiving meal, yet Ken had been still unable to attend. Renard could understand. Cases sometimes took precedence over everything else when it became a race against the perpetrator's clock.

Ken was listening quietly with fondness for the speaker at the other end of the line. People were moving aside, not begrudging the man for a moment of personal time. Everyone was well aware that Takemori and his team must have been working non-stop on this case for a few days, and understood the field agents of the FBI's homicide division often required a series of flight travel. He wondered how Ken could manage that life being a Royal. He couldn't live that way; always moving.

Expecting that he was going to be a little bit out of place standing so close to Ken when others had given him space- and not wanting to appear as if he was refusing to give any ground- he decided to wait for him by the white board with Singer's last known whereabouts written on it. He blinked in startlement as his route passing Takemori led to walking into his arm that had been suddenly flung in his path. "My eldest wants to speak to you."

"What?" His eldest? Eldest what? Surprised that he had the audacity to make physical contact, he didn't deduce the obvious before Ken answered for him.

"My daughter. Her name's Kira. She's nine. Be nice." Ken looked at him in amusement and faint warning in his eyes.

"What?" Renard repeated. Stunned at the news, he reacted too late as Takemori shoved his cellphone against his ear. "When did- I don't- What are you doing?" he protested exasperatedly off-balanced.

"Hello?" A young girl's voice interrupted, hesitant and shy. "Is this Sean Renard?" she asked with a little more assurance.

Renard looked at Ken in affronted confusion. Keenly aware that his officers were his audience, Renard took the phone from him. "… hi. This is Captain Sean Renard."

"Good morning! I'm Kira," she said excitedly. "Dad told me all about you. He said he'll be working with you to catch the bad guys!"

"… he did?" The question slipped out before he could stop himself. "Why?"

"Because I wanted to know," Kira replied.

He didn't know how to respond to that. The few encounters with Royal children during his adulthood only happened when they were present with their mothers. Those experiences were always unpleasant. The dismissive condescension and hostility was embittering; the mothers never failed to slid in a catty reminder that he'd be unable to sire children- an implicit prohibition due to his mix ancestry. The expectation that he was destined for servitude made him vindictively wish to see their children taken from them. But he resisted putting those mothers on the radars of children protection agencies; not giving into the temptation- knowing the dubiousness that the system could provided anything better and was more likely to endanger the children and expose them to preying parties.

He caught sight of Nick looking at him with amusement. Annoyed, he decided to end this spectacle. "I'm giving you back to your father now, Kira." He handed the phone to Ken- barely hearing Kira's words of wishing good luck- watching him finish with words of endearment and a warning to not eat too much of the Thanksgiving desserts.

"You're married with kids?" he asked incredulously- and a touch resentfully- when Ken hung up. Somehow, he never expected Ken to start a family. Not with his career in the bureau. Not as a Royal without an officially defined territory.

"Kira wishes us 'good luck' and to catch the bad guy. And divorced, actually. Four kids. Here. Look." Takemori gleefully pushed his phone in front of his face.

Disconcerted and unsure how to react to Ken's cheeriness towards him, Renard glanced down at the snapshot. He quickly studied Ken's four children posing around a Thanksgiving dinner- the centerpiece turkey mostly devoured, holding their spoons in glee before the hefty sundaes in front of them. Realizing that the eldest boy he was seeing would be Ken's chosen successor, he quickly committed the child to memory, placing him at six. His concentration momentarily distracted by a steel-gray cat with vivid green eyes lounging behind the children. Oddly, he was fixated by it and attempted to identify the breed, recognizing that it was too long-haired to be a Russian Blue, before inwardly scoffing at himself- he didn't even like cats. He then took note of the youngest girl, out of place among the other three children with her striking platinum blonde hair and blue eyes, apparently the fraternal twin to the youngest boy judging by their clothes. Something about her was familiar.

It took him a moment to place why and his eyes snapped towards Ken, staring at him. "You married Laura?!"

Agent Takemori grinned back at him. It wasn't meant to be a nice grin. "I did. We were. She's still keeping my family name though. She liked not having to explain that Dahlia wasn't a relative once we got married. You remember Dahlia too, right?"

He did.

Dahlia Serafini, a Hexenbiest working for Ken. No blood relation with Laura Serafini, a Grimm. A mistaken assumption he had made and inadvertently exposing that he was looking for the Agrippa-Weyer Arguments- rumored to be in the possession of the Hexenbiest Serafini line. He assumed the coincidental family name had caused many fellow seekers their deaths, not expecting to meet a Grimm. If she was still around he needed to be on guard. He doubted her enmity towards him has waned much. Her disdain for the Royal Perrault Family did not help matters.

The thought of his family brought a new wave of resentment, reminding him the scope of what was denied to him unless he seized it for himself, but with the ever present threat that it could still be taken away from him.

Ken married a Grimm and she bore him children. The elevation of status that automatically gave Kenneth was infuriating. That was an alliance of power unavailable to him. As an exiled bastard Royal who was half Zauberbiest- his children would be marked for immediate death. There was no value in forging marital ties with him, only danger. The coil of jealously threatened to lash out and he curbed the urge to react petulantly. Choosing instead to remain professionally calm, wearing his authority as police captain to balance himself. He can't let emotions derail his mind- to let his life spiral out of control.

The experience with Juliette was a reminder of that.

He needed to stay sharp and watch for advantages he could press.

Ken had a family to protect, and Renard expected it to be a motivational factor for whatever Ken was planning. Divorce was an interesting development, one that bore looking into. He adds unearthing the reason for their divorce to his mental list, taking second priority after his mission to figure out what Ken was plotting. Grimms hold a great deal of value and no Royal would willingly relinquish whatever hold they had on one. Something must have forced his hand.

Letting that thought bring small comfort and feeling that these new revelations gave him some leverage, he raises his brows questioningly at Ken. "Shall we go?"

Ken smiled tightly. "Let's."

~v-^-v-^-v-^-v~ ~v-^-v-^-v-^-v~

The gaping black pit of nothingness was there again, though silent for the moment, making her bedroom feel so much bigger. Juliette could sense it beneath her bed without opening her eyes. The instinctual fear caused by the awareness of a large mass disappearing underneath her had woken her up, her body locking itself up in a realization that it was in danger by gravity.

She now understood how matter had its own body of gravitational pull; the abstract concept no longer abstract now that her floor _wasn't there._ Clinically, she mulls over the sense of spatial difference, comparing the emptiness that she can feel now with the memory of what her bedroom had felt like then. The mental exercise unwinding the knot in her stomach, a reflexive muscle response to grab on something- anything- in a situation it knew from primal instinct that it was suppose to fall.

Feeling calmer, she takes a deep breath. And realized she had been holding it.

Breathes in and out. Letting the knowledge that she wasn't going to fall sink into her physical body.

She opens her eyes and blinks at her ceiling. Even after seeing it at least once a day, she thinks she's never going to get used to the abyss. But she's getting better at dealing with it. It and the misty apparitions and the echoing sounds that have taken to sharing the house with her.

She wondered what they meant. She wants to believe that it was a sign that her memories of Nick were coming back, but she doesn't understand why only the abyss stayed when she tried to study them all more closely. The ghosts vanished every time she got close and the sounds stopped once she pin pointed where they were coming from.

Thankfully, it and the auditory hallucinations have stayed at home, never following her anywhere else.

Small blessing.

Getting sick of it all, she wonders maybe if she really has gone crazy. No further explanation necessary. Rosalee mostly neutralized her obsessiveness with Nick's boss. But she can feel the faint pull of affections for him still there. She was skeptical that a herbal brew could eliminate her attraction to him, even though she believed in the values of old-fashion herbal remedies that at times were more effective than modern medicine. It was too supernatural.

So she had tested the effectiveness of the cure, poked and prodded at the memories she had of Captain Renard. Testing the strength of her feelings for the man. Recoiled into herself as she recalled the night they had violently attempted to consummate their lust for one another. She still can't quite understand what had happened that night. The desire that made her blood burn hot mixed with the confusion over her uncontrollable attraction to this virtual stranger must be what a whirlwind romance felt like to couples who wanted to be swept away by passion.

If that was what they wanted.

Anger and fear broke through the heady force of lust that night. Angry that he was resisting, and angry that she couldn't stop herself. Anger then mixed with fear as she realized he didn't want this either She doesn't understand how this happened, but she's sure that he's in the same position as her; he didn't want this anymore than she did. The sick horror of realizing what they were trying to do to each other clamored from the back her mind, and she looked at it, long enough for it to tear through everything else.

She fired his gun. All the frustration and confusion over her obsession with Nick's boss, the doubts that Nick was someone she had trusted, the strain of constantly taking a leap of faith in the memories of others and ignoring the niggling sense that she was being lied to, the feeling that her life had fallen apart and she didn't even know it- all cumulated in those shots.

Those bullets almost didn't make it to the walls. She had wanted him dead. Then maybe, all of this would be all over and her life could go back the way it used to be. But she trusted her feelings of fear over the incomprehensible desire and sudden rage for this man. It was the only emotion that could be explained. Trusted _herself,_ in the wreck of inexplicable emotions and impaired memory, that her reasoning was sound. And she made her decision to put a stop to this.

The feat had completely made her sick with exhaustion.

Juliette huffed quietly to herself. It was a night she didn't like to remember. But the memory roused a small measure of attraction and it proved they weren't completely in the clear yet.

Groaning to herself, she flopped over to the edge of the bedside and looked down into the endless black hole. She stuck her hand in it, swishing her arm back and forth in resignation. It was still silent, the usual electrical chain of sparks were not present this time. It felt like floating in mid-air, and she allows herself to enjoy the euphoria induced by great heights.

She suppose this is what acid trips were like. She wonders if there was anything else was slipped into the cure. Whatever it was, she hoped it didn't leave any permanent effects. The hallucinations hadn't followed her out of her house, but she wasn't willing to risk her patients and kept to basic organizational tasks, helping out the aides and receptionist, wanting to stay in touch with her co-workers and clients. There was always a sudden flux of patients after a big holiday. Mostly pets eating too much of something they really shouldn't. And there was still the occasional incident of kids feeding their pets car keys. After the car commercial about the owner starting his electronic car by rubbing his dog against the keyhole, who had swallowed the car-key, children naturally were curious and wanted to test it themselves.

But she did request for an official medical leave at her veterinary clinic, claiming she thought the coma may have done more to her than forget Nick. Even though the new scans she took revealed nothing was wrong. Her coworkers and boss were understanding, knew that losing all her memories of one person was highly unusual and agreed with her decision to play it safe. For now, she was just a part-time temp.

The alarm on her cellphone went off.

The clinic was closed on Sundays and she was planning to spend the day looking for another job.

It was time to get out of bed. The carpeted floor reappears underneath her feet and she winces a little as the impact jars her knees, mistiming her footing once again. Expecting their reappearance didn't help her any when it came to putting her foot down. The feet were amazing sensitive when it came to equilibrium and expectations of when it would come in contact with a surface. She still had to adjust her balance each time, unable to meet the floor properly.

She stretches and makes her way to the bathroom, hoping the sink mirror was still there and not another black void. She reminisces over her younger days as she waits for the hallway to reappear. While she was in college and studying to become a vet, she worked in a bakery. She remembered enjoying working behind the dessert counter and as the pastry chef. Those would be the places she'll hit first.

It almost felt like starting over.

~v-^-v-^-v-^-v~ ~v-^-v-^-v-^-v~

Notes:

Caspar David = I named Renard's hotel after the artist Caspar David Friedrich.

Serafini = name from the illustrator Luigi Serafini.

Trivia:

The show originally was going to have Juliette be a baker.

~v-^-v-^-v-^-v~ ~v-^-v-^-v-^-v~


	4. Chapter 4

**The Corpse Apple: Royalty 04**  
Description: The cursed laces were undone, and she moved. The cursed hairpin was pulled, and she thought. The cursed apple had been dislodged, and she lived. But this time, the Queen ensured she wouldn't come back right. Slash, het, mpreg, OCs. Renard-centric.

Takes place after The Sandman. Some canon divergences from Face-Off. Placing the events of 2.12 Season of the Hexenbiest through 2.15 The Sandman in November 2012.

**Warning:** Trigger warning alert! This fic contains an assortment of triggery content here and there. Nothing explicit though. There are also original characters not from the show. Also included are slash and het couples. And Renard mpreg. (Yes, you read that right.)

A/N: I make no claims of ownership of Grimm and its respective characters. This is not meant to impede anyone on the show their jobs. This is me just thinking about the show. A lot. And playing with the Grimm "action figures" and wishful thinking of stuff I'd like to see in fic form.

~v-^-v-^-v-^-v~ ~v-^-v-^-v-^-v~

_~Chapter 04~_

Pale olive or grey lavender to go with the sandy brown and creamy white?

Monroe held up the two ball of worsted yarns against the piece of knitted sweater.

He's pretty sure Rosalee didn't have a particular dislike to any color, so that made things easier, but Monroe thought she rather preferred to look at bright colors than wear them. So he just needs to pick the color that suited her better.

Monroe would have asked for Nick's opinion but it was tasteless to ask someone what they thought of a gift when they were getting the same one too.

Asking Hank and Juliette was out for the same reason.

Besides, it had been easy to select colors for those three. Nick was getting night green and black, in case he needed to wear it during his Grimm work. Hank got the golden ochre and chestnut red. Juliette's were prussian blue and mulberry pink.

Definitely tacky for him to ask.

He had been working on all of them bit by bit. Keeping the Christmas sweater knittings a secret became harder when the Grimm sharing your home sometimes had really, really good hearing and would come along to investigate strange noises. Waiting for Nick to leave for work before he could get any knitting done threw off his morning routine by an hour. He had to cut his Pilates session by half. But that was fine. The clicks of the knitting needles and repetitive hooking and looping were meditatively soothing enough as a substitute.

And he had need of being soothed.

There were crazy kidnappers in Portland that had been getting away with their kidnapping deeds for awhile now- playing some twisted fairytale dress-up with their victims. He couldn't imagine any of the familiar Wesen species doing something like this, and he told Nick as much. Wasn't anything that a Wesen would get out of these stagings that he could see either. Too much effort, too many times, and nothing bodily missing from the victims. Unless it was some unusual warm-up practice to something. Blutbaden went through ritual exercises to hone their predator skills before their first hunt and kill. Practice was important. Especially these days when the law enforcements were equipped with better technology. And you definitely didn't want to draw the attention of Grimms.

And these guys definitely had plenty of practice doing what they did. It's not easy to lug around unconscious bodies secretively. It took steady nerves and a mindfulness of the surroundings. And _that_ took practice.

Nervousness and a lack of attention meant leaving evidence or getting caught in the act. Jitteriness after the deed ran the risk of tipping someone off.

He hoped they weren't Wesens. Not with the FBI around. Wouldn't want them to accidentally see anything that they shouldn't.

One Hank per year was quite enough. He's not ready for more. He might develop a blood pressure disorder.

It was cold of him, but he couldn't help but hope for news of the next two victims. It would mean that Portland was done with this particular crisis. Unless Nick and Hank had it taken care of first.

When Nick first told him about their new case his first thought was to warn Rosalee. But Nick allayed his fears. The FBI sent pictures of the previous victims and, as Nick called it- Rosalee didn't 'fit the victim profile.' So he wasn't worried about Rosalee being grabbed. Even though she lived by herself above the shop. Right above all the merchandise- some of them rather expensive- where some robber might get it in his head to help himself without paying.

Alright, so he was a little bit worried. But only a little because it was just a precautionary anxiety. Nothing to seriously worry about.

It was a Sunday anyways. Nothing really happened on Sundays in Portland. And Rosalee would be opening the shop later before noon to give herself time to run other errands.

He still planned on stopping by today to help her out.

Maybe scare a few customers if they gave her any trouble.

Crazy shoppers. They were why he got all his holiday shopping needs done last month.

Them and Nick.

It was good to get things done early in the event that Nick's Grimm work disrupted his peaceful and orderly routine with life threatening danger. Though he wasn't seriously complaining about it that much. His horizons had definitely expanded ever since he met Nick. He's met Wesens that he normally wouldn't have due to being a Blutbad. Killed a Siegbarste- a Wesen he would have never dreamed of going up against in a million years. Stopped the Yellow Plague before it went anywhere. Got to meet a Royal- who was amazingly enough- Nick's boss.

_Dude._ Talk about a coincidence. Well. If it was a coincidence. Who knew with shifty Royalty?

So it had been quite a tumultuous year with the occasionally near-miss-with-death incurring instances. Like that time when Nick's mom nearly killed him.

_And oh my god._

It suddenly hits him.

He's met three Grimms all in one year and lived.

This was not how he expected his life to turn out. He did not expect to have a Grimm and his kehrseite partner as friends. He certainly didn't expect to have his own key to a Grimm's trailer of heritage and knowledge. Not to mention helping in unraveling the mysterious conspiracy over ancient keys fashioned by the ancestors of Grimms to open a wardlock that hid something from the Royal Families. The 'something' that might be in Bavaria.

Man, he hoped they didn't have to go there. If Nick though his life had trouble enough because of Royals, Verrat, and Reapers- it was ten times worse over there. There was a reason his family fled the Old World. And he really didn't want to be there when the new year comes around.

Sensationalist New Age hubbub over the Mayan Calendar of the 2012 apocalypse nothing. Next year was where the trials and tribulations would be at.

But it was all okay.

Because he got to meet Rosalee. Doomed to a solitary bachelor life unless he met another Wieder Blutbad- and the chances of meeting one were slim- he never considered he would have a Fuchsbau as a romantic companionship.

Whose sweater still needed him to pick the final color.

He studied the assorted colors of alpaca yarn laid out before him, waiting for his undecided decision to become decided.

Maybe chestnut red would be better. But Rosalee often wore muted shades of reds and browns already. What if she already had enough?

Oh, wait. He already decided Hank would get the chestnut red.

Pale olive it is.

~v-^-v-^-v-^-v~ ~v-^-v-^-v-^-v~  
They made the short walk to his office and car in silence. Renard indulging in some petulant satisfaction in forcing Takemori to follow him to his office just to grab his faux shearling trench coat. It made up for the moment of embarrassment being the one failing to meet proper decorum- something he would have received a thrashing for during his childhood- followed by irritation at his reaction. This wasn't court and this was his city. He wasn't late, they just arrived sooner than expected. There were serial murdering kidnappers to apprehend. He needed to be absolutely collected and he relegated all feelings of uneasiness behind more pertinent priorities. He never allowed the simple matter of poor sleep undermine him before and he wasn't going to start now.

Once the precinct disappeared from his rearview mirror and out of any chance of Nick accidentally picking up their conversation did Renard ask the pressing question:

"Are they Wesen?"

Silence met his terse question and Renard darted a quick look at his unwelcome passenger. Not getting the expected immediate response was a bad sign.

After a few more passing seconds did Takemori finally replied. "Agent Ford picked up the scent of the same Raub-kondor near two of the staged sites in New York. Close enough to function as the look-out. But nothing Wesen at any of the actual crime scenes or abduction points- except for some of the victims. I did what I could to get Dahlia and Mina's input but they weren't seeing anything magical or any imprints that couldn't be attributed to Wesen passersby." He looked out the window at the passing buildings, contemplating the changes. "I also had Mina covertly visit some of the sites, but it was too late to pick up anything suspicious. Nothing's changed since we've canvased the areas so we know the unsubs haven't been revisiting the crime scenes or the victims." Ken leaned into the leather seat, adding worriedly, "All the residue imprints that remained were non-Wesen."

"So you're saying you don't know," Renard commented with veiled sardonicism.

Ken turned towards him and smirked. "Are we really going be doing this the whole time?"

"That depends." Renard bit out. "So there's either a normal human mixed up in this, or someone whose residual presence reads kehrseite to a Blauflitzen and Hexenbiest." His jaw worked and he grated his teeth together once in annoyance. "And whatever Mina is," pointing out that he still didn't know the identity of her species. All he knew was that she seemed to share some similar abilities of a Hexenbiest. There was a reason he wanted access to Nick's trailer. It was a treasure trove of knowledge and he genuinely adored the antiquity of the tomes he saw- wanting to feel the weight of history in his hands. He hated that his knowledge of Wesens wasn't as comprehensive as it should be. It was embarrassing considering he was a Royal and derisively shameful as a Zauberbiest. He doesn't like the fact he has to work with incomplete information.

Ken ignored his last statement and continued on with the case. "So one of the unsubs might be a Biest, Ziegevolk, Practitioner, Royal, or Grimm."

A Grimm serial killer that went after non-Wesens. That was a disturbing thought, but frankly unsurprising. It was only a matter of time that some Grimm would revel in the thrill of hunting and snap. It explained how easily the authorities were being evaded, even as the periods between abductions had gotten shorter this month. "The timing of these kidnappings doesn't seem to be a coincidence," he voiced his earlier observation. "The perps seemed to be operating on an end of the year deadline."

"You noticed." Ken looked over the dashboard of his Chevrolet SUV, before twisting around for a cursory scan at the back, taking in the emptiness. It was clean and neat, but lacked any personal touches.

"I take it you sensed nothing either," Renard remarked. This time without any hint of criticism.

Ken glowered in frustration. "If magic is involved it's obscurely subtle."

Renard chose to remain silent. He was at a disadvantage when it came to magic; if this was what these crimes were about and Ken and his team couldn't find signs of it- that was worrying.

"When are we going to inform your Grimm of what he might be up against," Ken asked abruptly, "and are you going to tell him who he's working with?"

Renard braked a little harder than he should have at the red light. He turned to glare at Ken. "We," he emphasized, "are not informing him anything. There's nothing to tell and I'm sure he's concluded the same possibilities. And just as long as you remember that he's my Grimm," Renard punctuated his possessiveness, "I'm not revealing anything about you and your team."

Ken held his gaze. "Is that because you don't want to risk him making an alliance with me?" he asked with deceptive placidness.

The light changed to green and Renard turned back towards the road. "He's not like other Grimms," Renard warned. "He didn't grow up in this life. So don't think you could take him from Portland. He has ties here." Ties that were Juliette and his friends. "You won't convince him to leave for greener pastures."

Silence filled the car and Renard bristled, feeling Ken's eyes studying him. Then he tightly drew in air between his teeth in anger, not bothering to hide the reaction. He's giving up on keeping the pretense that he hadn't been on the defensive ever since Takemori got here.

They both knew he had slipped up; revealing how much he thought of another Royal here as a threat to his authority.

"You don't have his loyalty and those ties have nothing to do with you," Ken accurately extrapolated.

Renard was quiet, berating himself for letting Ken push his possessive buttons.

"The Portland Grimm isn't under your command." Ken commented with a hint of amused mockery. "You didn't tell him about yourself and he later found out on his own, didn't he?"

"Nick is under my command," Renard retorted. "I'm his captain."

"Technicalities." Ken said dryly. "You and your secrets." He relaxed back into his seat, but Renard could feel his eyes on him. "Is there anything my team and I should know about?"

Silence hung between them again as Renard became unresponsive. Buildings passed by them, banners celebrating Thanksgiving have been replaced with announcements of sales and the start of the Christmas season. Here and there were signage with cautionary requests to be careful and thoughtful of other shoppers.

A few major intersections were crossed before Ken broke the sullen silence.

"You've been losing supporters. All your Hexenbiester are gone," Ken continued, his tone matter-of-fact. "I'm not sorry to see Catherine Schade go. I heard that you killed one of your Krug cousins. And Eric lost one of his Mauvais Dentes here. How did Catherine and Leo die, anyway?" Ken waited a beat. "Did you have something to do with them or was it Burkhardt? I'm sure Kimura's death was your doing- he did die in your cells. Strange that he and Catherine died the same day."

The quiet clicking of the turn signal filled the silence and the car slowed to make a left.

"I do keep up with Portland's news." Ken answered the unvoiced suspicion, knowing Renard was considering what spies Ken had in Portland. "We Royals do keep tabs on each other, after all. Bastard or not, Portland is officially your Royal territory. And you know," he drawled, "that I have ample reasons to check up on you. Quite a coup you pulled on me." Ken paused. "Sometimes I get curious how you're enjoying your ill-gotten gains." Another pause- this one more meaningful. "I also wanted to stay up to date. Everything's been taken care of. I'm officially transferring here next month."

All warmth dropped from Renard, his visage stony as he inwardly seethed, but remained silent, ignoring the openings left in the conversation for him to step in.

"This case is a coincidence. It has nothing to do with us. I'm not here for your Grimm, or his Key. And I'm not here for revenge either." Ken sighed, then continued on, but there was a noticeable edge of firm warning in his tone that wasn't there before. "You saw my family. They're coming here. I showed you my children because no harm had come to them. Keep them out of whatever you're conspiring. I wasn't flaunting them in your face." Ken softly huffed in amusement. "Alright. Maybe I was. But I wanted you to know that my family are important to me. They're not for appearance's sake." Ken's voice hardened. "Don't equate them with the photos you have in your office. I know those are fake. And that wedding ring."

Unruffled by Renard's persisting silence and surge of radiating rancor, Ken continued his one-sided conversation. "I know we had a deal. I'm not here to take Portland from you." Ken shifted, and Renard watched from his peripheral vision that he reached for something in his suit-jacket's inner side pocket. "I'm sure that's all crossed your mind. You're probably starting to think I'm here to aggravate you. You know I have just cause."

"Then why are you really here, Ken?" Renard snapped, having enough of his goading.

"Maybe I was feeling sentimental," Ken mildly replied. "It's been eight years." He grinned roguishly. "I'm not getting any younger."

"I find that hard to believe," Renard coldly rebuffed. "Request for a different transfer. We had a deal and I don't need to make it up to you," he fumed. "I can still disgrace you in the eyes of the Clans, Prince Kenneth," Renard warned threateningly.

"Maybe so. But we both have our duties that makes this unavoidable. You'll just have to deal with it. And that's Crowned Prince to you." Ken responded, unconcerned.

Renard refrained from tightening his grip around the steering wheel, instead using the twisted knot of jealously to drag all other emotions into it, letting the news wash over him like water. "Marrying Laura really helped you out," he parried back. "Congratulations. But my canton, my rules. Get out of my city," he demanded, daring to flout all hierarchical propriety.

Ken raised a mocking eyebrow at him. "A little indignant are you? May I remind you that you're the one who worked his way into my bed-"

"You knew exactly who I was all along," Renard interrupted with building heat, his composure breaking. "You can hardly call yourself the wronged party."

"And blackmailed me with the Raskovnik Rumpel-"

"_**Shut. Up.**_"

The conversation stopped dead by his growled hiss of uncharacteristic words. The outburst nearly unintelligible, saturated with throaty rumbling as he lost control of his Zauberbiest voice. He can feel the skin around his right cheek visibly distorting and Renard carefully pulled over to the sidewalk's curb, putting the car in park. They sat in the tense uncomfortable silence, interspersed with Renard's loud breathing as he fought for control, one hand concealing his face. Ken patiently waited out the intonations as they thinly swirled over him, keeping a lookout for anyone that would be walking by. The enclosed space of the car amplified the volume of the quiet thrumming vibration, and though the low frequency was out of range of kehrseite hearing- they didn't want to attract Wesens with good ears either.

The air was almost intolerably thick with emotions. Filled with bitter pain and anger. Regrets and disappointments.

Getting himself under control, he fiddled with his tie, kneading it flat against his stomach. Without turning to look at Ken, Renard spoke softly and tonelessly. "Don't ever bring that up again. We had a deal."

Time slowed and long seconds trickled by without a response. They both waited for the oppressive turmoiled atmosphere to ease.

Scrubbing his face in remorse, Ken quietly took a deep breath and sighed. "I'm sorry."

Startled, Renard turned to face Ken, baffled at the apology. Confused that it sounded sincere… he didn't know what to say. "You promised," he muttered, looking away, discomfited by Ken's sad expression. Giving himself something to do, he flipped down the turn signal and pulled his car back onto the street.

Neither men wanted to say anything more, the weight of their history heavy in the air. They were a few minutes away from the country club that was one of George Singer's last stops when Renard broke the silence.

"I find it hard to believe you're not after the Grimm's key," Renard fished with non-committal casualness. "All the Families want the Keys."

"All the Families," Ken repeated. "I'm sure that's what you've been up to."

"I did get it," Renard shared. "I gave it back."

A poignant silence from Ken and Renard quickly glanced at him, noting his peculiar expression.

"Surprised?" he asked.

"I'd like to hear the story behind that," Ken said carefully. "Did you see the map?"

Renard hesitated, then decided on the truth. "Yes." The rustle of paper caught his ears and his attention was drawn to the package in Ken's hand.

"Something I picked up in New York," Ken said at his assessing look. "It reminded me of you."

They had arrived at the Pearl Swans & Harts Country Club, their first stop closest to the precinct before heading towards the breakfast bakery co-owned by Singer. If they were lucky, someone may have saw something or the club's security camera would have caught something suspicious. But Renard wasn't holding out on that. He pulled into a parking spot and turned off the ignition. Coming to a decision, he took a cautious step of cooperation in their partnership.

"Last week, Nick was temporarily blinded by a Jinnamuru Xunte. I don't know how strong his talents have become, but there's no indication that he's manifesting the geodasy sense," Renard explained, deciding to answer Ken's earlier question. "His partner, Hank Griffin, is a kehrseite schlich kennen. Nick told him after he couldn't hide his Grimm life from him anymore. It's taking time, but Hank's adjusting well. They also have Wesen friends. I'm not privy to whom all of them are, but Nick is friends with a Fuchsbau running Portland's primary Wesen apothecary." He hesitated again, then plunged on. "They know what I am and I warned them to keep my identity a secret. They know I tried to kill Marie Kessler and Catherine's daughter once worked for me. I told Nick that I'm at odds with the Families. I don't know how much he knows about our world. We have… issues we need to work out between us. " He looked at Ken, waiting for his reaction. They both knew he was deliberately omitting many details.

Ken sighed again. The look on his face showed that he expected to be doing that a lot now and Ken grimaced at himself.

"Will you tell Nick about me?" Renard asked, testing the waters.

In reply, Ken handed Renard the package he pulled from his jacket. With some suspicion, Renard unwrapped the dark burgundy tissue paper revealing a white cashmere textile. He unfolded it to discover it was a knitted cap… with the simple design of a cat's smile and its eyes sewn on. The short triangular ears protruded from the top. His brow furrowed in puzzlement, then the creases even out in surliness as he recognized the message.

Ken watched him with strained weariness borne from knowing what he was getting into. "I'm here for next year. I'm not here to be your enemy, Sean. So drop all the Royal blustering and I won't keep rankling you." He reached into his suit again; this time pulling out a keyring with small assorted trinkets dangling from it. They softly clinked and clacked- wood meeting metal, brocade cloth brushing against resin- as he removed one of the larger ornaments. Ken held it to him, three hoops of different sizes set within one another with a circular coin in the center as the supporting axis: a charm signifying a gyroscope.

Sulkiness gave way to confusion, and he looked at Ken in askance. He hesitantly reached out for it, accepting it guardedly, carefully avoiding skin contact. He rubbed the charm between his fingers, recognizing the inscriptions for health and safety on one side, and feeling the bamboo engraving on the other.

"But I know you don't actually believe me." Ken unlocked the door. "I have no intention of telling your detectives about you. Or anything else for that matter. I have no use for a loose Grimm. As long as nothing poses a danger to me and mine, or interfere with the job. Other than that? It's all up to you." With a look of finality, he stepped out and calmly closed the door behind him, waiting for Renard to join him outside.

Renard looked at the two gifts in his hands. He tugged at one of the ears balefully; the cat's smile laughing at him- before stowing it in the glove compartment. The gyroscope charm went into his pocket.

Ken was right… he didn't believe him.

~v-^-v-^-v-^-v~ ~v-^-v-^-v-^-v~  
The loud ding of the the metal doorbell announced Juliette's entry as she opened the glass door to be greeted by the wafting smells of freshly baked bread and sweet pastries. She's only been to this particular bakery twice. She discovered it months ago and remembered that they had wonderful muffins, but the bakers were a little bit… exuberantly helpful and odd.

"Hello! Welcome to Happy Hearth's Bakery!" An older woman with graying brown hair called out cheerily from behind the pastry display. The morning flow of breakfast buying customers had passed and she was restocking for the lunch hours.

Another woman- the younger sister from the looks of her- stood at the circular bread counter that was the centerpiece in the store. "How can we help you? Would you like to try a sample of our orange zest muffins?" She walked over with the tray of cut muffin pieces.

"Hi," Juliette smiled warmly. "I actually saw your Help Wanted sign-"

"Oh, you're Juliette! Nick's fiancee!" she exclaimed happily.

Suddenly, it became hard to smile.

"Juliette!" The older woman moved to the other end of the display closer to them. "It's been a long time since we've seen the two of you!"

"Did you want another order for cranberry-pear pie? The two of you loved that!" The younger woman asked, and Juliette noted that her name tag was 'Annie.'

"Nick and I came in here?" She asked, still smiling.

"Why yes!" Annie nodded. "He used to come in to pick up something but he hasn't been by in awhile. Ever since your coma-" Annie broke off, chagrined. "Oh, I'm sorry. You probably don't want to be reminded of that."

The older woman hustled out from behind the counter and Juliette saw her name tag read 'Beth.' She looked at Juliette with pitying concern. "You poor dear, you still don't remember Nick?"

"It's alright." Juliette smiled at Annie in comfort. "How did you two know about my condition?"

"Bud's wife- she's a friend of ours- told us what happened. She heard from Bud that your coma took your memories of Nick away."

"Oh! You know Bud!" Juliette exclaimed in polite surprise, but inwardly she felt the crush of disappointment. Bud, she knew, was hiding something from her too. He was a part of Nick's secrets. And she wanted to get away from that. Away from the feeling that she was caught within the wake of whatever was going on in Nick's life. She was getting fed up at the gnawing suspicions of conspiracy to continually keep her in the outskirts, contradicting everyone's message that she was someone who had been beside him.

Beth waved a hand in the air. "Oh, yes. We all got family and friends around here."

"Really?" Juliette asked, letting out a small laugh of curiosity and her smile stretched. "It sounds like you have quite a large group of support."

"We do!" Annie confirmed eagerly. "We all help each other out around here. It's good to have someone to count on when there's dangerous Wes- bad folks out there." She smiled, covering up the awkward slip with some sadness. "We all try to stay in this district and over out west at the organic farm lands. People do crazy things these days. I don't even watch the news by myself anymore."

Beth interrupted. "You were asking about our Help sign. Are you looking for a job?"

"Oh, yes! But it's not for me." Juliette explained quickly. "I have a client who's daughter was thinking of entering the bakery business and I thought I'd gather up some details since I was just passing by."

"How sweet of you," Beth said in fondness. "Well it's only for December and the end of February. Let me give you our card and she can give us a call."

Juliette accepted the card Beth pulled off the cashier counter and thanked them both, graciously accepting the apple pie that came fresh out of the oven.

She held on to her smile as she walked out the door.

Mentally she scratched off strips of business shops and moved her search to the higher end districts.

Away from all these people who knew Nick.

~v-^-v-^-v-^-v~ ~v-^-v-^-v-^-v~

Notes: Using what I think are the 4th Wall Breaking props to my own ficcing ends. But not sure if the gold ring is part of that. Or if it means something else. Or it's part of Renard's routine of putting on appearances. (He's such a showroom display.) Which is kinda odd choice. Deliberate misrepresentation doesn't exactly foster trust. Not to mention the feeling of being suckered. I can imagine how that could blow up in his face if he had to deal with victims. Unless correcting the misconception is the actual tactic to make it appear that he's trustworthy.

The knitting came from a prompt requesting Monroe knit Christmas sweaters for everybody. This isn't the last you'll see of Monroe's knitting skills!

Trivia:

"to wear a cat as a hat" = Japanese saying meaning to be fake and pretending to be something you're not, or faking benignity.

kehrseite = the term for a plain human by Wesens on our show. Google translate says it means 'other side.'  
kehrseite schlich kennen = Wesen term for plain human who have knowledge of them

~v-^-v-^-v-^-v~ ~v-^-v-^-v-^-v


End file.
